THE 
MASTER  OF  STAIR 

BY 

MARJORIE 

Author  of  The  Viper  of  Milan 


NEW  YORK 

McCLURE,  PHILLIPS  &  CO. 
MCMVH 


Copyright,  1907,  by  McClure,  Phillips  &  Co. 
Published  April,  1907 


To  Mark  Twain 

with  deep  gratitude  for  the  flattering  interest 
shown  by  a  great  man  of  letters  in 
the  work  of  a  beginner 


2135133 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  ONE 

CHAPTER  PACK 

I  RONALD  MACDONALD  .....         3 

II  THE  Kiss           .                   .                                    14 

III  JOCK  O'BREADALBANE'S  WIFE     ...       24 

IV  DELIA  FEATHERSTONEHAUGH       .          .         .35 
V  THE  FOLLY  OF  DELIA                    ...       47 

VI  HATE  MEETS  HATE     .         .•                  .         .62 

VII  THE  POISON  OF  THE  Kiss  ....       77 

VIII  MACCALLUM  MORE    .                                             87 

IX  ON  THE  ROAD  TO  LONDON  ....       98 

X  THE  KING'S  MESSENGER    ....     108 

XI  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR        .         .          .         .119 

XII  THE  LOVE  OF  DELIA           .                   .         .131 

XIII  THE  MASTER'S  WIFE  .         .     149 

XIV  THE  CURSE  OF  THE  DALRYMPLES         .         .     161 
XV  THE  AVOWAL     .                                               .     174 

XVI  A  LAMPOON  ANSWERED       ....     183 

XVII  THE  BITTERNESS  OF  DEATH         .          .          .195 

XVIII  AN  INNOCENT  BETRAYAL     ....     205 

XIX  THE  PACT          .                                               .     217 

XX  ON  THE  VERGE  OF  MADNESS       .         .         .     227 

XXI  WILLIAM  OF  ORANGE           .                            .     238 

XXII  THE  RESOLUTION  OF  DESPAIR                        .     256 


CONTENTS 

C1UPTBK  PAGE 

XXIII  JAMES  FITZJAMES        .  .  .261 

XXIV  THE  LOVE  OF  MARGARET  CAMPBELL    .          .  272 
XXV    GLENCOE 284 

BOOK  TWO 

I    THE  RECKONING         .....  309 

II     FOREBODINGS     ......  318 

III  THE  TRIUMPHS  OF  THE  CAMPBELLS     .          .  329 

IV  THE  LIE  ACCOMPLISHED      ....  335 
V    A  WOMAN'S  VICTORY  .....  344 

VI     "THERE  WAS  No  MASSACRE  IN  GLENCOE"    .  364 

EPILOGUE    THE  GLEN  O'  WEEPING    .                        .  374 


GLENCOE 

In  the  Glen  o'  Weeping, 

The  Valley  o'  Glencoe, 
Watch  the  giant  hills  are  keeping 

In  their  frozen  wreaths  o'  snow. 
Tears  from  out  the  mists  are  falling 

And  the  winds  forever  sigh 
To  the  lonely  eagle  calling 

As  he  circles  through  the  sky, 
With  the  blood  o'  the  Macdonalds 

All  red  upon  his  claws, 
The  blood  o'  the  dead  Macdonalds 

Who  broke  the  Campbell  laws. 

Through  the  Glen  o'  Weeping, 

The  Valley  o'  Glencoe, 
Where  the  blighted  trees  are  sleeping 

And  black  the  waters  flow, 
Where  the  dead  lie  in  their  darkness, 

Their  frozen  hearth  beside, 
As  the  day  glooms  into  darkness, 

Come  the  living  in  their  pride 
Through  the  lines  o'  dead  Macdonalds 

Lying  naked  to  the  blast, 
Through  the  stern  and  still  Macdonalds 

Come  the  Campbells  riding  fast. 


GLENCOE 

Now  is  tJie  Glen  o'  Weeping 

The  Valley  o'  Glencoe, 
Bright  with  light  o'  swords  upleaping 

And  flashing  to  and  fro; 
And  gallant  is  the  seeming 

Of  man  and  horse  together 
As  with  flying  harness  gleaming 

They  ride  the  trampled  heather 
Through  the  homes  o'  the  Macdonalds 

Who  lie  defenseless,  dumb, 
Through  the  spilt  blood  o'  the  Macdonalds 

The  victor  Campbells  come. 

Now  shall  the  Glen  o'  Weeping, 

The  Valley  o'  Glencoe, 
When  our  noble  heirs  are  reaping 

The  deeds  that  now  we  sow  — 
Lie  desolate,  forsaken, 

Bleak  to  the  brooding  mist, 
While  we  our  way  have  taken, 

By  winged  fortune  kissed. 
Swept  from  our  path  the  Macdonalds, 

Swept  from  our  path  away: 
Now  out  o'  the  Glen  o'  Weeping, 

Into  the  light  o'  day  I 


BOOK    ONE 


CHAPTER    I 
HONALD  MACDONALD 

SOME  fifty  men  were  making  slow  progress  through 
the   pass  of  Glenorchy,  which  lies  in  the  heart  of 
Invernesshire  and  so  in  the  very  depths  of  the  wild 
Highlands.  A  thick  white  mist  hung  over  the  land- 
scape; it  was  the  end  of  October  and  a  raw  and  chilly  day; 
the  dull  purple  heather,  disclosed  now  and  then  by  the  lifting 
vapor,  the  gaunt  firs  and  faded  bracken  that  grew  along  the 
pass,  were  shivering  under  the  weight  of  dripping  moisture. 
The  men  strained  their  eyes  to  pierce  the  drifting  mist, 
and  drew  closer  the  damp  tartans  that  showed  they  were  of 
the  Clan  of  Macdonald ;  they  were  all  on  foot :  some  led  shaggy 
ponies  on  whose  rough  backs  were  strapped  packages  and 
what  appeared  to  be  the  plunder  of  some  great  house,  for  the 
objects  included  silver  and  gilt  cups  and  goblets  tied  together 
by  the  handles;  and,  slung  across  the  saddle,  handsome  gar- 
ments such  as  the  Saxons  wore,  and  guns  of  a  make  not  often 
seen  in  a  Highlander's  hands. 

A  drove  of  fine  cattle  were  driven  in  the  rear  of  the  Mac- 
donalds,  and  a  man  who  was  obviously  the  leader  walked  a 
few  paces  ahead  of  the  others.  He  was  distinguished  from  his 
followers  by  the  faded  laced  cloth  coat  under  his  plaid,  the 
pistols  in  his  belt,  and  his  high  cowskin  boots,  the  others  being 
barefoot  and  wearing  nothing  but  their  tartans  and  rude 
garments  of  untanned  leather. 

3 


4  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

The  mist  began  to  lift  a  little,  the  dim  forms  of  the  sur- 
rounding mountains  became  visible;  the  leading  Macdonald 
stopped  his  men  and  looked  about  him :  the  mist  had  confused 
even  his  innate  knowledge  of  the  country.  Such  of  the  land- 
scape as  they  could  see  was  pure  desolation,  vast  brown  hills 
and  tracts  of  heather :  there  were  no  roads,  not  so  much  as  a 
foot-path  to  guide  them. 

The  only  sign  of  life  was  an  eagle  who  circled  high  above 
their  heads,  and  now  and  then  swept  into  view,  screaming 
dismally. 

The  leader  of  the  Macdonalds  shuddered  in  the  damp  cold 
and  was  making  the  signal  for  his  men  to  continue,  when  his 
quick  ear  caught  a  distant  sound.  He  paused,  the  train  of 
Highlanders  motionless  behind  him. 

It  was  the  sound  of  the  jingle  of  harness,  the  soft  thud  of 
horses'  hoofs  on  the  heather :  a  party  of  horsemen  riding  near. 

With  the  stealthy  alertness  of  men  who  are  always  either 
hunters  or  hunted,  the  Macdonalds  drew  together  in  the  pass; 
the  foremost  threw  themselves  flat  on  the  ground  and  closed 
their  hands  round  their  dirks.  The  mist  was  closing  round 
them  again,  but  it  was  not  so  thick  that  they  could  not  discern 
a  group  of  horsemen  crossing  the  pass  at  a  swift  trot.  It  was 
impossible  to  see  how  many  there  were;  they  were  very  swiftly 
gone,  and  utter  silence  fell  again. 

The  Macdonalds  began  to  move  cautiously.  The  mist 
thickened  so  that  they  grew  uneasy,  their  eyes  were  strained 
for  another  sight  of  the  strangers,  their  ears  for  the  sound  of 
the  bridle  bells. 

The  eagle  flew  close,  then  past  them  and  out  of  sight;  they 
were  feeling  their  way  a  step  at  a  time,  the  ponies  stumbled 
over  the  wet  rocks  the  heather  concealed,  the  men  could 


RONALD  MACDONALD  5 

hardly  see  each  other.  They  began  talking  in  whispers,  won- 
dering who  these  horsemen  might  have  been,  disputing  about 
the  way. 

Then  it  came  again,  the  thud  thud  of  a  horse. 

The  Macdonalds  stopped  dead;  their  leader  softly  cursed 
the  mist  and  held  himself  on  the  alert. 

It  seemed  to  be  only  one  horse  now,  and  very  close;  they 
could  hear  it  slipping  among  the  rocks,  the  sound  of  the  clink- 
ing harness,  but  they  could  see  nothing.  It  died  into  the  dis- 
tance; the  mist  rose  a  little  and  they  caught  a  sudden  glimpse 
of  a  red  figure  on  a  dark  horse  in  front  of  them,  then  they  lost 
sight  of  it  again  in  the  thick  vapor. 

They  pushed  on  slowly,  teased  with  the  faint  sound  of  the 
unseen  horsemen,  ready  for  a  stranger  and  enemy,  yet  baffled 
by  the  mist. 

Suddenly  the  sound  grew  louder;  the  Macdonalds  looked 
round  fiercely.  Their  leader  was  almost  thrown  by  the  swift 
passing  of  a  huge  brown  horse  bearing  a  rider  in  a  scarlet 
coat,  who  crossed  in  front  of  him  and  was  swallowed  into  the 
mist.  He  had  only  a  glimpse,  and  the  bells  were  again  tink- 
ling in  the  distance;  the  horseman  did  not  appear  to  have  seen 
him,  but  as  he  passed  a  whip  had  struck  Macdonald  lightly 
on  the  face. 

With  a  fierce  cry  the  Highlander  was  plunging  through  the 
mist  after  him;  the  sound  guided  him;  he  ran  forward  swiftly, 
maddened  by  that  slash  on  the  cheek,  striving  to  cleave  aside 
the  blinding  fog. 

All  at  once  he  heard  it  coming  again,  saw  the  brown  horse 
looming  toward  him,  and  made  a  wild  dash  at  the  reins. 
But  it  swept  past  him.  He  thought  he  heard  the  rider  say 
something  or  give  a  little  cry. 


6  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

The  mist  began  to  lighten,  grow  thinner;  he  saw  the  rider 
ahead  and  ran  after  him  with  his  dirk  undrawn.  His  strength 
was  almost  a  match  for  the  horse  which  was  evidently  very 
jaded  and  weary;  his  rider  looked  back  and  urged  him  faster, 
but  the  Macdonald  was  gaining. 

It  was  clear  enough  now  for  him  to  see  who  he  was  pursuing. 
A  slender  figure  in  a  scarlet  roquelaure  with  [the  collar  turned 
up  to  his  ears,  his  beaver  and  feather  hanging  limp  with  the 
rain;  both  his  dress  and  his  horse  were  of  the  lowlands.  The 
Macdonald 's  eyes  glowed  at  the  sight  of  the  Saxon;  he  was 
too  stung  to  care  that  he  had  missed  his  men  in  the  pursuit. 
He  came  on  at  a  run,  silently.  The  horseman  had  gained 
rising  ground  and  stood  outlined  against  the  sky. 

The  mist  changed  to  a  drizzling  rain :  they  were  able  to  see 
each  other  distinctly;  the  tired  horse  stumbled  and  stopped, 
the  rider  wheeled  him  round  and  drew  up,  facing  the  High- 
lander. In  the  vast  gloomy  scene  he  was  the  only  spot  of  color 
on  his  smooth  bright  chestnut  horse  with  the  "glittering  har- 
ness, with  his  vivid  red  coat  and  the  long  draggled  brown 
feather  hanging  on  his  shoulders. 

The  Macdonald  stopped  a  pace  or  two  away  from  him  that 
he  might  see  who  this  Saxon  could  be,  sitting  very  still  and 
calm,  with  his  head  lifted  —  haughtily,  it  seemed.  Then  he 
cried  out  and  fell  back  a  step. 

It  was  a  woman  who  looked  down  at  him  from  the  brown 
horse:  a  proud,  still  woman's  face  that  showed  in  the  high 
collar. 

She  calmly  viewed  his  utter  amazement,  sitting  utterly 
motionless,  very  upright. 

After  a  second  she  spoke;  slowly,  in  Gaelic. 

"What  do  you  want  with  me  ?" 


RONALD  MACDONALD  7 

Her  voice  sounded  thin  and  unnatural  coming  through  the 
vast  open  space ;  she  broke  her  words  with  a  cough  and  shud- 
dered as  if  she  was  very  cold. 

The  Macdonald  had  stood  motionless,  eagerly  surveying 
her;  when  she  spoke  he  came  toward  her  slowly,  with  the 
caution  and  curiosity  of  a  wild  animal  scenting  the  unknown. 

She  too  looked  at  him,  but  covertly,  and  her  face  expressed 
no  interest  as  her  eyes  dwelt  on  his  magnificent  figure  and 
torn  and  faded  clothes;  she  waited  for  him  without  a  move- 
ment or  a  word. 

As  he  came  to  her  saddle  bow  he  pulled  off  his  bonnet  and 
stood  erect  in  the  straight  rain,  his  frank  blue  eyes  on  her  face. 

"My  name  is  Ronald,"  he  said,  "and  I  am  a  prince  of  the 
Macdonalds  of  Glencoe." 

The  horsewoman  coughed  and  shivered  again  before  she 
answered;  she  had  noted  the  half -sullen,  half -proud  defiance 
of  his  bearing  and  replied  to  that: 

"Why  do  you  speak  so  ?"  she  said.  "You  give  your  speech 
a  turn  of  bitterness. " 

He  came  still  closer  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  fallen  reins. 

"I  thought  you  were  a  Campbell,"  he  said,  and  watched  for 
the  effect  of  the  loathed  name  on  her;  there  was  none;  she 
merely  shook  her  head. 

"I  am  a  stranger, "  she  answered.  "I  came  with  my  kinsfolk 
on  a  mere  family  affair  — 

His  face  lightened. 

"I  saw  them  through  the  mist, "  he  said. 

She  looked  round  her. 

"And  now  the  mist  hath  gone  and  I  am  utterly  lost. "  She 
shivered. 

Suddenly  she  glanced  down  at  him;  he  was  very  young,  of  a 


8  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

giant's  make;  his  square  cut  fresh  face,  tanned  the  color  of 
ripe  corn,  looked  up  at  her;  his  clear  eyes  were  very  steady 
under  the  rough  brown  hair;  she  gave  a  slow  faint  smile. 

"Are  you  too  lost  ?"  she  asked. 

"It  were  not  possible  for  me  to  lose  my  way  to  Glencoe," 
he  answered.  "But  I  have  missed  my  men." 

He  was  still  studying  her  with  a  frank  absorbed  curiosity; 
she  pushed  her  heavy  rain-soaked  hat  a  little  off  her  face  and 
at  sight  of  her  red-blonde  hair,  he  cried  out,  fiercely: 

"Ye  are  a  Campbell!" 

Her  face  expressed  a  cold  surprise. 

"I  am  Helen  Fraser,"  she  said  quietly,  "and  no  kin  to  the 
Clan  of  Campbell." 

It  would  have  been  difficult  to  disbelieve  her  unconcern; 
Macdonald  hesitated,  not  knowing  what  to  do. 

"Will  you  put  me  on  my  way  ?"  she  asked  as  a 
probe  to  his  silence.  "I  am  wet  and  cold  —  and  most  utterly 
lost." 

At  the  note  in  her  voice  all  his  Highland  hospitality  woke. 

"Will  you  come  to  Glencoe  ?"  he  asked  simply. 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  must  find  my  people,"  she  said 
resolutely.  "Tell  me  the  way  —  they  ride  in  the  direction  of 
Glenorchy. " 

Macdonald's  eyes  flashed. 

"Jock  Campbell's  castle  —  you  go  there!"  he  cried. 

"I  go  that  way  —  not  there,"  she  answered,  "but  to  Loch 
Awe." 

He  was  appeased  again.  "Glenorchy  is  three  miles  from 
here, "  he  said.  "And  Glencoe  some  ten  —  as  you  are  a  woman 
I  will  go  with  you  to  find  your  people. " 

She  made  no  show  of  either  gratitude  or  refusal.  "I  shall 


RONALD  MACDONALD  9 

die  of  cold,"  she  said  impatiently.  "Take  the  bridle  and  lead 
the  way. " 

The  drizzle  had  settled  into  a  steady  downpour;  the  sky 
was  a  merciless  even  gray;  the  distant  hills  wreathed  with 
heavy  rain  clouds,  the  gloomy  rocks  about  them  running  with 
water. 

Macdonald  took  the  horse's  head  in  silence  and  led  him 
across  the  squelching  heather.  They  were  at  the  top  of  the 
ravine;  the  country  before  them  was  broken  and  utterly  wild, 
but  he  had  no  fear  of  losing  his  way  while  he  had  the  use  of 
his  eyes.  The  woman  shuddered  closer  into  her  coat.  "Put  me 
on  the  road  to  Glenorchy,"  she  said.  "My  people  will  be  look- 
ing for  me. " 

"Would  you  not  be  afraid  alone,  Helen  Fraser  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  she  answered  quietly. 

"Are  you  friendly  with  the  Clan  of  Campbell  ?"  he  said, 
"for  you  must  cross  their  lands. " 

"I  know  nothing  of  them,"  came  the  tired  voice  from  the 
great  collar.  "But  —  I  say  —  I  am  not  afraid." 

He  was  silent  again ;  he  knew  little  or  nothing  of  the  distant 
Clan  of  Frasers,  he  marveled  at  the  dress  and  refined  appear- 
ance of  this  woman :  he  had  never  seen  any  but  the  Campbell's 
women  in  this  Lowland  habit. 

Neither  spoke  as  they  wound  through  the  rocks  and  heather; 
he  at  the  horse's  head,  heedless  of  the  cold  and  rain ;  she 
huddled  on  the  saddle,  shivering  under  it. 

She  spoke  at  last  so  suddenly  that  he  turned  with  a 
start. 

"Who  are  those  ?"  she  said. 

He  looked  in  the  direction  her  gloved  hand  pointed. 

From  the  branch  of  a  great  fir-tree  two  men  were  dangling, 


10  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

the  rain  dripping  forlornly  from  their  soaked  clothes  and  the 
fair  hair  that  fell  over  their  dead  faces. 

"Campbells,"  answered  Macdonald.  "Would  there  were 
more  than  two." 

"She  turned  her  gaze  from  the  dead  men;  her  face  was 
utterly  unmoved. 

"How  you  hate  these  Campbells,  Macdonald  of  Glencoe," 
she  said  curiously. 

He  was  bewildered  by  her  note  of  wonder,  turned  it  over  in 
his  mind  and  could  think  of  nothing  to  say  but : 

"I  am  a  prince  of  the  Macdonalds. " 

"God  fend  me  from  these  feuds!"  she  cried.  "My  people 
live  at  peace. " 

"They  would  not,  Helen  Fraser,  if  they  were  two  hundred 
men  alone  in  the  country  of  the  Campbells. "  He  looked  at  her 
over  his  shoulder,  his  color  risen.  "To  one  side  of  us  we  have 
MacCallum  More  himself  —  to  the  other  Jock  Campbell  of 
Breadalbane  and  his  vassals  swarm  in  their  hundreds  —  but 
we  do  no  homage  —  because  there  has  been  no  Campbell  yet 
dare  enter  Glencoe." 

He  had  stopped  with  the  force  of  his  words  and  his  fierce 
eyes  measured  her  narrowly. 

She  gave  her  slow  smile : 

"Well  —  go  on,"  she  said.  "I  have  no  call  to  be  the  Camp- 
bells' friend. " 

He  went  on  at  his  steady  even  pace  and  she  said  no 
more. 

They  were  crossing  a  level  tract  of  moor;  once  she  looked 
back  at  the  men  on  the  fir-tree;  the  rain  was  blotting  them 
from  sight,  but  she  could  see  them  faintly,  dark  against  the 
sky. 


RONALD  MACDONALD  11 

Presently  the  dismal  screaming  of  a  bird  of  prey  broke  the 
desolate  stillness. 

"There  is  an  eagle  —  has  found  a  meal,"  remarked  Mac- 
donald. 

"How  he  skrieks!"  she  answered,  and  leaning  from  the 
saddle  peered  forward.  "Look  —  ahead  of  us  — 

A  great  brown  eagle  was  hovering  a  few  feet  off  the  ground 
and  another  circled  slowly  above  him. 

"What  have  they  found  ?"  whispered  the  woman.  She 
looked  half-eagerly,  half -fearfully ;  they  were  near  enough  for 
her  to  see  a  tumbled  heap  of  plaid  in  the  heather  with  some- 
thing smooth  and  shining  white  in  the  midst. 

The  eagle  wheeled  his  slow  flight  closer  and  she  saw  that 
his  beak  dripped  with  blood. 

"Who  are  those  he  feeds  on  ?"  she  asked  very  low. 

Macdonald  turned  the  horse's  head  away  from  the  eagle's 
orgy- 

"It  is  Campbell's  tartan  and  a  Campbell's  skull,"  he  said. 
"What  else?" 

She  was  still  straining  her  eyes  after  the  ghastly  bundle 
they  were  leaving  behind  them. 

"It  is  a  woman !"  she  cried. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "we  got  her  yesterday  from  Jock 
Campbell's  house  —  we  burnt  a  house  of  his  two  days  ago  — 
you  could  see  the  flames  from  here."  His  eyes  sparkled  with 
pride.  "They  were  three  to  one,"  he  added,  "but  the  Camp- 
bells always  fight  like  Lowlanders. " 

She  put  her  hand  to  a  face  grown  ghastly  white. 

"You  keep  your  eagles  well  fed,"  she  said.  "I  would  not  be 
a  Campbell  in  your  hands,  Macdonald  of  Glencoe!" 

He  looked  up,  puzzled  at  her  tone;  he  had  not  properly  seen 


12  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

her  face  nor  could  he  see  it  now  for  the  collar  and  the  hat;  it 
occurred  to  him  that  she  did  not  understand  the  bitterness  of 
this  hate. 

"There  is  the  sword  and  the  flame  between  us  two,"  he 
said.  "A  Campbell  has  not  broken  bread  with  a  Macdonald 
for  a  thousand  years  —  we  are  the  older  race  and  by  craft 
they  have  the  mastery. " 

"Of  the  whole  Highlands,  I  do  think,"  she  put  in. 

"Yes,"  he  cried  fiercely.  "But  not  Glencoe  —  we  have  that 
yet,  and  we  harry  them  and  goad  them  to  curses  and  slay 
them,  and  thwart  them  though  we  are  but  two  hundred  — 
now  my  tacksman  return  home  with  the  plunder  of  Jock  o* 
Breadalbane's  house  —  we  left  his  door-step  wet  with  blood, 
not  for  the  first  time !" 

She  caught  her  breath. 

"Some  day  you  will  pay  the  price,"  she  said,  "for  he  has  the 
Saxons  and  the  Southrons  behind  him  —  he  is  a  mighty  man. " 

The  Highlander  flung  up  his  head.  "Let  the  Saxons  try  to 
reach  Glencoe,"  he  said  grimly.  "Let  Jock  Campbell  turn  his 
claymores  out  to  touch  us  here  —  there  will  be  more  blood  for 
the  eagles  at  Strath  Tay!" 

She  lapsed  into  silence  again ;  the  rain  was  growing  colder, 
changing  into  a  fine  sleet;  she  was  numb  and  frozen. 

"Give  me  rest,"  she  said  faintly,  "or  I  die  —  is  there  not  one 
hut  in  all  this  barrenness  ?" 

He  looked  surprised  that  her  endurance  should  be  exhaust- 
ed already;  hesitated  with  a  desire  to  be  rid  of  her  encum- 
brance. 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  him  delicately  on  the 
shoulder;  for  the  first  time  he  saw  her  eyes,  green  and  very 
bright,  as  she  leaned  forward. 


RONALD  MACDONALD  13 

"Ah,"  she  said  very  softly.  "You  would  not  leave  me — 
when  I  am  lost  —  or  make  me  ride  when  I  am  like  to  faint  — 
find  me  shelter  for  awhile,  Macdonald !" 

"I  would  not  have  left  you, "  he  answered,  "and  though 
I  know  none  of  you,  Helen  Fraser,  I  will  find  you  shelter. " 

There  was  a  wattled  hut  near  by,  often  used  as  an  outpost 
by  the  Maedonalds  in  their  plundering  raids;  he  turned 
toward  it  now ;  it  was  very  little  off  the  road  to  Glenorchy. 

Helen  Fraser  looked  at  his  great  figure  before  her,  his  reso- 
lute strength,  his  firm  face,  and  she  gave  a  little  inscrutable 
smile. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  KISS 

RONALD  MACDONALD  had  kindled  a  peat  fire 
in   the   hut  and  strengthened    it  with  dried  fir 
boughs  from  the  stack  of  wood  in  the  corner. 
A   bright  flame  leaped  up  and   showed  the 
rude  interior,  the    mud  walls,  the    earth  floor,  the  rough- 
hewn  log  seat  and  the  figure  of  Helen  Fraser  taking  off  her 
dripping  red  coat. 

She  flung  it  over  the  log,  swept  off  her  hat  and  stood  straight 
and  slim  in  her  close  brown  dress,  while  she  held  her  hands 
over  the  flame. 

Macdonald,  leaning  against  the  wall,  looked  at  her  and 
wondered. 

She  was  young  and  very  slender;  eminently  graceful;  her 
hands  were  perfect;  she  had  an  oval,  clear  white  face,  a 
thin  scarlet  mouth,  eyes  narrow  and  brilliant,  arched  red 
brows  and  a  quantity  of  red- blonde  hair  that  hung  damp  and 
bright  onto  her  shoulders. 

Macdonald  had  never  seen  a  woman  of  this  make  be- 
fore; now  he  had  her  close  and  could  study  her  at  his 
ease,  he  found  her  grace  and  self-possession  wonderful 
things.  The  sight  of  her  hair  as  she  shook  it  out  to  dry  made 
his  face  cloud  for  a  moment.  "'Tis  the  Campbell  color," 
he  said. 

She  smiled  over  her  shoulder.  "I  did  not  know  that  till 

14 


THE  KISS  15 

to-day,"  she  answered.  "Many  of  the  Fraser's  women  have 
hair  like  this. " 

She  took  up  the  long  curls  in  her  white  hand,  and  held 
them  in  the  firelight  where  they  glittered  ruddy  gold.  Her 
green  eyes  surveyed  him. 

They  looked  at  each  other  so  a  full  minute  —  then  he  spoke. 

"Why  did  you  strike  me  when  you  rode  past  ?" 

She  gave  a  sudden  laugh. 

"My  whip  slipped  —  I  meant  it  for  the  horse,"  she 
said,  "not  for  you,  Macdonald  of  Glencoe  —  why  should 
I?" 

The  thick  peat  smoke,  that  circled  round  the  hut  before  it 
found  the  rude  aperture  that  served  as  a  chimney,  made  her 
cough  and  shudder. 

"Where  are  we  now  ?"  she  asked. 

"By  the  entrance  to  Glenorchy,"  he  answered,  gazing  hard 
at  her. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "Jock  Campbell's  lands  —  his  castle  lies 
there,  you  said  ?" 

She  was  leaning  against  the  wall ;  her  eyes  indifferently 
on  the  smoke  and  flame;  then  suddenly  she  lifted  them  and 
Macdonald  started;  they  were  such  a  vivid  color,  green  as 
those  of  a  wildcat. 

"You  are  bold  to  come  so  near  Glenorchy  when  you  have 
burnt  Jock  of  Breadalbane's  house,"  she  smiled. 

"He  is  in  the  Lowlands,"  Macdonald  answered.  "And  I 
have  said  —  no  Campbell  would  follow  where  I  go  —  to 
Glencoe  —  though  Campbell  of  Breadalbane  is  serpent- 
cunning  and  very  full  of  lies." 

"You  hate  him  very  deeply  ?"  she  questioned. 

His  frank  eyes  flew  wide. 


16  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"He  is  the  loathed  devil  of  all  the  Campbells,"  he  cried, 
"surely  you  know  that  ?" 

She  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"What  are  his  qualities  ?"  she  asked.  "Why  do  you  hate 
him  so  ?" 

"Ask  every  soul  in  the  Highlands  or  the  Lowlands,"  he 
answered  fiercely,  "and  if  ye  find  one  to  say  a  good  word  for 
Jock  Campbell  —  then  will  I  tell  ye  of  his  qualities." 

He  came  across  the  hut  and  stood  towering  over  her. 

"I  do  mistrust  you,"  he  said.  "I  think  you  are  over  quiet." 

She  drew  herself  a  little  closer  against  the  wall,  the  green 
eyes  glittered  up  at  him. 

"I  think  you  are  a  Campbell,"  said  Macdonald,  breath- 
ing hard. 

"By  Christ,  I  am  not,"  she  answered  resolutely.  "Nor  any 
friend  of  theirs." 

There  was  a  little  pause,  the  heavy  sweep  of  the  rain  without 
came  distinctly,  mournfully,  and  a  low  wind  howled  through 
the  rough  window. 

Macdonald  gazed  into  her  eyes:  she  did  not  wince,  but 
suddenly  smiled;  the  color  came  into  her  cheeks. 

"Ye  have  a  wonderful  face,  Helen  Fraser,"  he  said.  "Are 
you  a  princess  of  the  clan  ?  " 

"I  am  Lord  Eraser's  daughter,"  she  answered,  "and 
heiress  of  our  family." 

"They  should  be  proud  of  you,"  said  Macdonald.  J* Are 
you  a  maid  or  wife  ?" 

al  am  unwed,"  she  said,  "and  am  ever  like  to  be,  for  I. do* 
find  it  hard  to  love." 

He  turned  away  from  her  and  pointed  to  the  log. 

"Will  you  sit  ?"  he  said  with  a  grave  courtesy. 


THE  KISS  17 

She  complied  at  once  with  a  deepening  of  her  smile. 

In  one  corner  was  a  pile  of  skins;  Macdonald  lifted  these 
and  brought  out  from  under  them  two  goblets  of  pure  gold. 

As  he  raised  them  he  looked  at  the  woman;  she  showed 
through  the  cloudy  smoke  brown  and  gold  and  brilliant; 
her  hair  was  as  vivid  as  the  little  tongues  of  flame  she  held 
her  hands  over. 

"From  the  Campbells,"  he  said,  putting  the  goblets  down, 
"and  this  from  the  King  —  in  France." 

He  brought  out  a  slender  bottle  of  wine  and  stripped  off 
the  wicker  covering. 

"We  keep  these  things  hidden  here,"  he  explained,  "so 
that  when  any  cannot  reach  the  Glen  they  may  find  food." 

He  turned  over  the  skins  and  heather  till  he  found  a  rough 
cake  of  grain.  Helen  Fraser  rose  and  came  up  behind  him. 

"Are  these  your  takings  from  the  Campbells  ?"  she  asked, 
and  picked  the  goblets  up.  They  were  very  handsomely 
engraved  with  the  arms  of  John  Campbell,  Earl  of  Breadal- 
bane. 

Macdonald  lifted  the  glittering  wine  with  an  eager  smile. 

"We  drink  as  royally  as  Jock  Campbell  with  his  Low- 
land luxuries,"  he  cried.  "This  is  King's  wine." 

She  held  out  one  of  the  goblets  while  he  filled  it  and  let 
the  other  drop. 

He  put  his  lips  to  it,  then  held  it  out  to  her  with  something 
like  a  challenge  in  his  eyes. 

"Drink  with  me,  Helen  Fraser." 

She  took  it,  drank,  and  gave  it  back  to  him  with  the  same 
unmoved  smile. 

"Now  we  are  pledged  friends,"  he  cried.  "But  wait  — 
ye  shall  break  bread  with  me  —  " 


18  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"I  cannot  eat,"  she  said.  "Believe  me  —  I  am  sick  with 
weariness. " 

He  looked  as  her  keenly  over  the  brim  of  the  brilliant  wine- 
cup. 

"Ye  shall  do  it,"  he  said.  "I  would  be  allied  with  thy  clan." 

He  broke  the  bread  and  salt  that  to  him  formed  a  rite 
impossible  to  violate  and  gave  it  her  with  eager  blue  eyes  on 
her  face. 

She  took  it  slowly,  afraid  to  show  reluctance,  and  ate  a  little 
while  he  watched  her  closely. 

Then  he  put  one  of  the  skins  on  the  log  and  another  under 
her  feet,  and  stirred  up  the  fire  to  give  her  warmth. 

She  had  become  very  silent;  she  took  his  care  with  no 
thanks,  passively,  but  all  the  while  her  jewel-like  eyes  were 
covertly  studying  him. 

He  came  and  sat  opposite  to  her;  his  huge  shadow  dancing 
behind  him.  Between  them  lay  her  steaming  red  coat,  the 
gold  wine-cups,  and  the  elegant  French  bottle,  brilliant  on 
the  mud  floor. 

Outside  the  rain  was  coming  down  less  heavily,  but  the 
wind  had  risen  and  they  could  hear  the  rocking  of  the  fir-trees. 

She  spoke  at  last,  in  her  quiet  voice:  "Do  you  go  to  the 
conference  Breadalbane  holds  at  Glenorchy?"  she  asked. 
"You  know  he  calls  the  Highlands  thither  to  treat  of  peace  — 
and  loyalty  to  the  new  King." 

Macdonald    laughed : 

"And  the  gold  he  hath  to  buy  us  fills  his  own  coffers  — 
there  will  be  no  peace  while  Jock  Campbell  treats,"  he 
answered. 

"But  many  great  chiefs  have  gone,"  she  said,  "And  the 
whole  force  of  the  new  King  is  behind  Breadalbane  —  " 


THE  KISS  19 

"We  may  go,"  replied  Macdonald.  "But  we  will  not  take 
the  oaths." 

Another  silence  fell;  she  stirred  the  smoldering  peat  with 
her  foot;  he  seemed  to  be  utterly  absorbed  in  watching  her; 
she  had  taken  his  wild  fancy  most  suddenly,  most  completely. 

"I  must  go  on,"  she  said  at  last.  "They  will  be  searching 
for  me." 

She  rose  and  put  back  her  glittering  hair. 

"And  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Macdonald,  rising  too. 

She  looked  over  her  shoulder;  seemed  to  hesitate,  a  drift 
of  the  peat  smoke  floated  between  them,  through  it  he  saw 
her  face,  white,  calm,  and  her  narrow,  brilliant  eyes. 

She  picked  up  her  damp  coat  and  hat. 

"I  can  go  alone  if  you  will  put  me  on  my  road  to  Loch 
Awe,"  she  said.  "It  cannot  be  far." 

"Too  far  for  you  alone,"  he  cried.  "You  —  surely  you  are 
afraid  ?" 

Helen  Fraser  put  on  her  coat  and  turned  up  the  great  collar 
before  she  answered. 

"And  are  not  you  afraid  to  go  any  further  through  Jock 
Campbell's  lands  ?" 

He  was  stung  by  her  poise  and  strangeness.  "Helen  Fraser, 
ye  are  mad  to  think  to  go  alone!" 

She  had  caught  up  her  hat  and  very  swiftly  opened  the 
rough  door. 

The  first  blast  of  the  wind  made  her  shudder,  but  she 
stepped  out  into  the  rain  with  a  resolute  carriage. 

Her  horse  was  tethered  close  under  some  fir-trees:  his 
glittering  harness  was  the  only  bright  thing  in  the  gloomy 
landscape;  he  lifted  his  head  at  sight  of  his  mistress  and  she 
turned  toward  him. 


20  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

But  she  was  stopped  by  Macdonald's  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"Look  about  ye,  Helen  Fraser  —  and  think  if  ye  would 
go  alone!" 

She  glanced  at  him  and  then  about  her;  below  them  the 
river  Orchy,  tumbled  through  the  ravine,  about  them  the 
mountains  towered  into  the  mist,  to  either  side  were  grrjit 
broken  spaces  of  heather,  moss  and  bog ;  straight  before  them 
ran  a  strip  of  dirty  white  road  that  wound  through  the  Glen  of 
Orchy.  Over  all  was  the  veil  of  the  pitiless  rain  and  the 
sound  of  the  tossing  fir-trees. 

Helen  Fraser,  erect,  bareheaded,  looked  on    it  unmoved. 

"Where  does  that  road  lead  ?"  she  asked. 

Macdonald's  blue  eyes  flashed. 

"To  Castle  Kilchurn — Jock  Campbell's  house,"  he 
answered.  "Not  your  way  —  your  kinsfolk  can  have  no 
business  there." 

"No,"  she  said,  and  coughed  and  shivered.  She  gave  no 
sign  of  where  she  was  going  or  upon  what  errand  she  and  her 
clan  were  bound,  and  he,  having  broken  bread  with  her, 
would  not  deign  to  question ;  she  might  be  concerned  in  some 
of  the  intricate  politics  or  feuds  of  the  Highlands;  he  felt  it 
no  matter  of  his,  but  he  also  felt  he  would  not  lose  sight  of 
her  so  easily. 

She  spoke  again,  suddenly: 

"I  would  rather  go  alone  —  I  can  find  my  way  —  I  have 
been  here  before." 

A  great  color  came  into  Macdonald's  face;  he  put  his  hands 
on  her  shoulders  and  turned  her  round  so  that  she  faced 
him. 

"Why  do  you  so  loathe  my  company?"  he  demanded.  "I 
am  a  prince. " 


THE  KISS  21 

She  breathed  a  little  heavily  to  feel  him  holding  her  — 
but  her  face  was  unmoved. 

"I  have  a  friendship  for  you  and  all  the  Macdonalds," 
she  said. 

"Well,  prove  it,"  he  answered  eagerly. 

"Let  go  of  me,"  she  said  a  little  unsteadily.  "I  have  broken 
bread  —  and  drunk  with  ye. "  She  shook  her  head,  tossing 
the  damp  red  curls  off  her  white  forehead  and  her  lips  trem- 
bled a  little. 

"Let  go  of  me,"  she  repeated. 

He  looked  at  her  steadily  and  smiled :  "The  witches  of 
the  mountains  have  brought  us  together,  Helen  Fraser  — 
I  shall  find  you  again  —  and  as  a  pledge  —  ye  shall  kiss 
me." 

"I  will  not,"  she  answered.  "Take  your  hands  away, 
Macdonald  of  Glencoe!" 

But  he  held  her  gently  against  the  mud  walls  of  the  hut; 
heedless  of  her  shudder  under  his  touch. 

A  great  rowan-bush  full  of  dull  berries  grew  close;  her 
scarlet  dress  pressed  against  the  dripping  leaves  as  she  drew 
as  far  as  she  was  able  away  from  him. 

"Ye  shall  —  "  he  said  simply.  "Why  not  ?" 

She  was  still  and  quiet  though  she  saw  she  was  helpless. 

"We  are  strangers,"  she  said  quickly. 

"I  would  not  have  it  so,"  he  answered  eagerly.  "Through 
war  or  peace  I  would  be  a  friend  to  thee  and  thine  —  and  I 
would  have  thy  kiss  on  it  —  so  that  there  may  never  be  feud 
between  mine  and  thine  —  kiss  me,  Helen  Fraser!" 

She  crushed  further  into  the  rowan-tree  and  gave  one 
quick  glance  round  the  utter  desolation. 

"No!"  she  said.  "No!  I—" 


22  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

But  her  words  were  stifled,  for  he  had  caught  her  up  to 
him  —  and  kissed  her  lightly,  full  on  the  mouth. 

Like  flames  piercing  ice  a  sudden  passion  flared  from  her 
calm;  she  called  out  something  fiercely  in  the  Lowland 
language  that  he  could  not  understand,  and  wrenched  away 
with  the  furious  color  in  her  face. 

"A  Macdonald's  kiss  will  not  harm  ye!"  he  cried  hotly } 
roused  by  her  wrath. 

At  the  sight  of  his  face  she  controlled  herself  and  set  her 
lips. 

"Ye  have  done  what  ye  wished,"  she  said  unsteadily. 
"Put  something  between  us  that  I  shall  remember."  She 
was  trembling;  passionately  clasping  and  unclasping  her 
hands;  he  came  toward  her;  she  clutched  at  the  reins  of  her 
horse  and  leaped  into  the  saddle. 

She  flung  on  her  hat,  her  eyes  shone  through  the  floating 
feather  and  hair;  she  had  a  perfect  seat  in  the  saddle;  Mac- 
donald  noticed  how  gloriously  she  sat  and  how  her  proud  look 
became  her  face. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  come  with  ye,"  he  said,  his  fair  face 
flushed.  "I  will  not  leave  ye,  Helen  Fraser,  until  ye  find  your 
kinsfolk." 

She  had  one  hand  in  the  pocket  of  her  coat.  Her  green  eyes 
were  on  him ;  she  suddenly  spurred  her  horse  forward. 

Macdonald  taken  by  surprise,  stood  still  a  moment,  then 
impulsively  came  after  her.  He  saw  her  turn  in  the  saddle 
with  something  glittering  in  her  hand.  The  next  second 
the  report  of  a  pistol  rang  out;  a  flash  of  fire  through 
the  rain. 

Ronald  Macdonald  cried  out  and  fell  on  his  side,  shot 
through  the  ankle. 


THE  KISS  23 

A  sweep  of  color  came  into  her  face  as  she  saw  his  plaid 
prone  on  the  heather;  she  thrust  the  smoking  pistol  into  her 
holster  and  turned  her  horse's  head  down  the  white  road  that 
led  to  Castle  Kilchurn. 


CHAPTER  III 
JOCK  O'  BREADALBANE'S  WIFE 

LOCH  AWE  lay  vast  and  gloomy  under  the  gray 
skies;  it  was  twilight  and  the  sky  burnt  gold  and 
purple  with  the  last  of  the  setting  sun  behind  Castle 
Kilchurn.  Though  it  no  longer  rained,  great  black 
clouds  lay  over  the  distant  mountains  and  a  thick  mist  hung 
over  the  placid  water.  The  castle  itself,  standing  huge  and 
magnificent  on  the  tongue  of  land  that  runs  into  the  loch  at 
the  foot  of  Ben  Cruachan,  bore  on  the  Gothic  turrets  the 
English  standard:  a  symbol  of  the  authority  with  which  the 
government  had  invested  the  Earl  of  Breadalbane. 

Along  the  road  that  wound  by  the  edges  of  the  loch  to  the 
castle,  rode  a  woman  in  a  scarlet  cloak. 

The  vast  expanse  of  cloudy  sky,  the  huge  outlines  of 
misty  mountains,  the  gloomy  castle  and  the  great  storm- 
twisted  fir-trees  were  all  tinged  with  an  air  of  awe  and  melan- 
choly. 

The  woman  and  her  bright  brown  horse  were  reflected 
among  the  shadows  of  the  broken  clouds  in  the  still  water; 
she  rode  slowly  with  her  face  lifted  to  the  flaring  sky  and  her 
red  hair  blown  back  from  her  face. 

There  were  lights  in  the  windows  of  the  Castle  Kilchurn, 
and  the  outer  gates  stood  open. 

The  horsewoman  rode  through  and  up  to  the  great  en- 
trance, where  she  alighted.  Before  she  had  time  to  knock, 

24 


JOCK  O'BREADALBANE'S  WIFE  25 

four  or  five  servants  came  hurrying  across  the  courtyard  to 
take  her  horse,  and  the  door  was  flung  wide. 

She  silently  entered  the  vast  stone  hall,  and  looked  about 
her;  a  couple  of  white  hounds  came  running  up  to  her;  a 
gray-haired  butler  stepped  forward.  She  asked  him  in  Saxon : 

"Is  my  lord  here  yet  ?" 

"Nay,  my  lady;  he  is  looking  for  your  ladyship,  when  he 
found  ye  were  missing,  he  returned  to  find  ye,  my  lady. " 

"Let  one  go  after  him,"  she  answered,  "to  say  I  am  arrived 
—  is  my  cousin,  Colin,  here?" 

"Yea,  my  lady;  and  all  the  other  gentlemen." 

She  flung  off  her  damp  coat  and  ascended  the  great,  bare 
unfurnished  stairs. 

On  the  first  landing  she  came  into  a  glare  of  light  that  fell 
through  an  open  door;  servants  were  passing  to  and  fro,  and 
there  was  the  sound  of  many  voices. 

She  entered ;  stood  in  the  doorway  looking  down  the  room. 

It  had  been  the  dining-hall  of  the  old  castle;  it  was  a  large 
room  with  tapestry  on  the  walls  and  a  huge  log  fire  burning 
on  the  hearth. 

Round  the  black  oak  table  a  party  of  gentlemen  were 
dining  by  the  light  of  a  hundred  candles.  At  sight  of  the 
woman  in  the  doorway  they  all  rose  with  one  exclamation: 

"The  Countess  Peggy!" 

She  came  down  the  room  smiling. 

"Ye  did  expect  I  had  fed  the  eagles  by  now  ?"  she  asked. 
"Weel,  I'll  no  be  saying  but  I  was  fearfu'  of  it  mysel'  —  wel- 
come to  Kilchurn,  gentlemen — .gude  even  to  ye,  Colin." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  the  gentleman  at  the  head  of 
the  table  and  took  her  place  beside  him,  while  the  others 
reseated  themselves. 


26  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"So  my  lord  wanders  on  the  mountains  searching  for  me  ?" 
she  said.  "And  ye'll  no  be  having  a  great  opinion  of  my  wits 
for  getting  lost. " 

The  green  eyes  glanced  round;  some  ten  men  were  seated 
there;  all  fair-haired,  unmistakably  of  one  race,  her  own, 
Campbells  with  keen  faces. 

"I  was  no  greatly  fearing  for  ye,"  said  her  cousin,  Colin 
Campbell  of  Ardkinglass.  "Ye  will  be  knowing  these 
parts  vera  weel,  I  thought  ye  could  find  your  way  to 
Kilchurn." 

The  Countess  Peggy  laughed. 

"Weel,  I'm  blithe  to  be  out  of  the  mist  and  wet,"  she 
said.  "Albeit  I  have  gotten  a  great  cold." 

"Ye  didna'  come  in  with  any  of  the  murdering  Hieland- 
men  ?"  asked  one  of  the  gentlemen. 

The  Countess  poured  out  some  wine  and  drank  it  before 
she  answered. 

"Yea  —  I  was  put  on  my  way  by  one  of  the  Glencoe  men." 

A  murmur  ran  round  the  table. 

"Macdonald  o'  Glencoe!" 

Lady  Breadalbane's  green  eyes  flashed:  "Ay,"  she  said. 
"He'd  been  thieving  an'  murdering  —  burning  one  of  my 
lord's  houses,  he  said.  He  showed  me  Campbells  rotting  on 
the  trees  and  - 

She  checked  herself  abruptly;  her  keen  glance  roved  round 
the  grim  Campbell  faces.  "I  think  we've  taken  enough  from 
these  Macdonalds  of  Glencoe,"  she  said  slowly. 

There  was  a  little  deadly  pause;  it  was  not  easy  for  a 
Campbell  to  voice  his  feelings  for  a  Macdonald. 

It  was  the  Countess  who  spoke  first :  "They're  vera  simple, 
these  savages;  I  told  him  I  was  a  Fraser. " 


JOCK  O'BREADALBANE'S  WIFE  27 

"It  was  wise,"  remarked  her  cousin  dryly.  "If  he  had 
kenned  ye  were  Breadalbane's  wife,  weel,  ye  wouldna'  be 
here  noo." 

"Indeed,  they  do  hate  my  lord,"  she  answered.  "I  had  to 
listen  to  some  miscalling  of  Jock  Campbell  —  as  they  name 
him."  Her  thin  lips  curled  into  a  bitter  smile.  "I  tried  to 
sound  him  about  this  conference  —  ye  ken  —  this  matter 
my  lord  has  on  hand  for  quieting  the  Hielands  —  'we'll 
never  take  the  oaths'  —  he  says  —  'Jock  Campbell's  got  the 
money  in  his  coffers  for  himseF  —  we  may  come,'  he  says, 
'but  we'll  enter  into  no  treaty  with  a  Campbell.'  ' 

"Puir  fules,"  said  one  of  the  company.  "They  think  we 
want  them  to  be  taking  the  oaths  to  King  William  ?" 

"They're  no'  so  simple  as  that,"  answered  another.  "But 
they  consider  the  new  government'll  need  something  for  its 
money  —  an'  if  a  Campbell  can't  quiet  the  Hielands  —  some 
one  else  can  try  —  it's  plain  they're  bent  on  ruining  the 
negotiations  out  of  spite  to  Breadalbane. " 

The  Countess  Peggy  set  her  wine-glass  down  fiercely: 
"Weel,"  she  said,  "'tis  the  end  of  October  noo,  an'  they  must 
take  the  oaths  by  January  —  they've  been  dallying  for  two 
years  —  but  I'm  no'  thinking  either  we  or  the  government  will 
be  taking  any  more." 

"Lochiel  and  Glengarry  show  signs  of  yielding,"  said 
Colin  Campbell,  "though  they  demand,  ye  ken,  too  much  of 
the  money  —  and  Coll  a'  the  Cows,  the  ould  murdering  thief, 
he'll  come  in  to  save  his  ugly  neck  —  but  Macdonald  of 
Glencoe  will  na'." 

"I  dinna  think  we  shall  be  troubled  as  how  to  treat  them," 
answered  another.  "They'll  be  rebels  —  it'll  be  a  fine  chance 
to  be  clearing  the  country  of  a  den  of  thieves. " 


28  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

The  Countess  Peggy's  eyes  flashed  at  the  speaker  a  meaning 
look. 

"My  lord'll  be  equal  to  them,"  she  smiled. 

In  their  hearts  they  all  assented;  they  knew  the  Earl  of 
Breadalbane,  ruthless  and  cunning  even  for  a  Campbell; 
of  a  fine  ability  and  a  power  that  made  him  next  to  his  cousin 
Argyll,  the  master  of  the  Highlands;  and  these  kinsmen  of  his, 
a  body-guard  of  Campbells  kept  always  about  him,  regarded 
him  with  a  respect  that  only  great  cunning,  great  falseness 
and  great  power  could  have  engendered  in  their  shrewd  souls. 

Dinner  over,  they  rose;  they  had  come  from  Edinburgh 
that  day  and  were  mostly  weary. 

The  Countess  Peggy,  whose  masterful  spirit  they  obeyed, 
dismissed  them. 

She  was  going  to  wait  up  for  the  Earl,  she  said,  and  needed 
no  company. 

It  was  hardly  late  yet;  but  the  Campbells  were  never 
of  a  roistering  spirit;  most  of  them  went  to  bed;  the  Countess 
waited  alone  in  the  dining-hall. 

It  was  full  of  the  mellow  light  of  candles  and  the  bright  glow 
of  the  fire;  the  arms  and  trophies  of  the  chase  on  the  tapes- 
tried walls  glittered  in  points  of  light. 

She  seated  herself  in  a  large  oak  chair  that  almost  concealed 
her  slender  figure;  her  buckle  shoes  were  held  out  to  the  blaze; 
her  fine,  thin  face  was  outlined  against  the  ruby  head  cushion ; 
she  sighed,  finding  herself  tired. 

One  of  the  boar-hounds  had  found  its  way  in  and  lay  by 
her  side;  her  long  white  hand  hung  idly  down  and  caressed  his 
silky  ears;  all  her  movements  were  very  graceful;  her  body 
as  supple  as  her  face  was  unmoved  and  hard. 

The  heavy  clock  in  the  corner  had  struck  ten,  but  she  gave 


JOCK  O'BREADALBANE'S  WIFE  29 

no  sign  of  impatience;  her  lids  drooped  over  her  brilliant  eyes, 
though  her  firm,  thin  mouth  was  unrelaxed. 

It  struck  the  half -hour.  She  looked  round ;  the  table  was  set, 
nothing  was  wanting  for  her  husband's  welcome;  she  lapsed 
into  musing  again. 

Presently  she  started  into  alertness;  there  was  a  sound 
without;  the  door  opened  suddenly. 

"Jock!"  she  cried  and  sprang  up. 

A  slight  gentleman  in  a  shining  cuirass  stood  in  the  door- 
way. 

In  a  second  the  dog  was  at  his  side  and  the  woman  half  way 
down  the  room  with  out-held  hands  to  meet  him. 

"Jock!"  she  said  again;  the  change  in  her  was  wonderful; 
she  flushed  into  an  animated  color,  all  hardness  left  her  face; 
with  sparkling  eyes  and  parted  lips  she  came  to  him. 

"Weel,"  he  smiled,  "I  didna'  think  ye  would  be  lost  on 
your  own  Hielands. "  He  stooped  and  kissed  her;  then 
with  a  sudden  half-laugh  to  hide  the  unsteadiness  in  his 
voice : 

"Ye  gave  me  a  bitter  moment,  Peggy,  when  I  found  ye 
had  missed  us." 

"  'Twas  the  mist!"  she  cried.  "I  dropped  my  whip  and 
turned  back  for  it  —  then  the  mist  thickened ;  ah,  my  dear, 
ye  canna  ken  how  lonesome  I  felt  alone  in  the  wild  hills." 

She  trembled;  her  overwrought  control  leaving  her  at 
sight  of  him ;  he  led  her  to  the  table  and  drew  her  down  beside 
him;  he  was  more  relieved  at  sight  of  her  safe  in  Kilchurn 
than  he  would  have  cared  to  put  into  words,  and  it  was  with  a 
sigh  of  relief  that  she  looked  at  him;  she  had  had  disturbing 
visions  of  the  wild  Macdonalds  meeting  the  hated  Breadal- 
bane. 


30  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

She  sank  on  a  little  stool  beside  him  while  he  eat  his  supper, 
with  her  green  eyes,  very  soft  now,  on  his  face. 

He  was  a  man  of  a  remarkable  appearance;  of  a  very 
elegant  build  and  upright  carriage,  though  barely  of  the 
middle  height;  his  face  was  thin  and  hollow  in  the  cheeks, 
his  lower  jaw  projecting  gave  him  a  sinister  expression; 
his  nose,  a  high  aquiline,  his  eyes  large,  light  gray  and  very 
restless;  his  thick  brown  hair  of  a  blond  so  pale  that  it 
appeared  gray. 

There  was  an  air  of  great  delicacy  and  dignity  about  him ; 
he  smiled  continually,  but  taken  without  the  smile  the  face 
was  hard  and  cruel. 

When  he  looked  at  his  wife,  however,  it  entirely  softened 
and  his  unpleasant  eyes  flashed  into  a  passion  that  redeemed 
them  as  she  caught  his  free  hand  and  laid  it  against  her  cheek. 

"  'Tis  the  last  time  I  lose  sight  of  ye  when  we  cross  the 
Hielands,  Peggy,"  he  said.  "Did  ye  meet  any  ?" 

"Yea,"  she  answered  under  her  breath;  "a  Macdonald 
o'  Glencoe." 

The  Earl  turned  in  his  chair  with  a  flash  of  steel  and  gold. 

"One  of  those  thieves !"  he  cried.  "What  did  he  do  ?" 

A  deep  color  came  into  her  face. 

"He  showed  me  the  way,"  she  said.  "He  showed  me  also 
Campbells  he'd  slain  —  he  showed  plunder  from  your  house 
—  he  named  you  devil  —  and  —  " 

"Ah,  he  didna'  ken  ye  were  a  Campbell  ?"  asked  Breadal- 
bane. 

"Why  no,  Jock  —  I  told  him  I  was  a  Eraser  —  I  didna' 
desire  to  be  murdered." 

"Ye  will  have  deceived  him,"  remarked  the  Earl.  "Ye  are 
a  bonnie  liar,  Peggy. " 


JOCK  O'BREADALBANE'S  WIFE  31 

He  gave  the  strange  compliment  in  all  sincerity  and  so 
she  took  it. 

"But  ye  hav'na'  heard  the  finish,"  she  said.  "Jock  —  will 
ye  ever  forgive  me  ? " 

She  lifted  eager  glowing  eyes  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

Breadalbane  put  down  his  wine-glass. 

"Weel  ?"  he  questioned.  "Ye  look  ower  serious,  Peggy." 

She  gave  a  great  shudder  as  at  the  remembrance  of  some- 
thing loathly. 

"I  have  broken  bread  with  a  Macdonald,"  she  cried 
bitterly.  "And  —  " 

"Weel? "he  insisted. 

"And  then  —  by  force  —  he  kissed  me,  Jock. " 

The  Earl's  hollow  face  flushed  scarlet. 

"A  Macdonald  o'  Glencoe  kissed  ye!"  he  cried. 

"Ay,"  she  answered  passionately.  "But  I  dinna  think 
he'll  live  to  boast  of  it.  I  left  him  on  the  mountain,  shot 
through  the  ankle." 

"It  should  have  been  his  heart,"  said  Breadalbane  grimly. 

"Yes,  I  ken,  but  I  couldna'  —  'tis  work  for  you,  Jock,  not 
for  me  —  I  just  shot  to  prevent  his  following  me  —  tis  likely 
he'll  die  of  hardship. "  She  rose  restlessly  to  her  feet. 

"I  wish  he  hadna'  kissed  me,"  she  cried.  "A  Macdonald 
o'  Glencoe!" 

Breadalbane's  pale  eyes  flashed  and  narrowed,  but  he 
spoke  quietly: 

"The  Macdonalds  and  I  will  come  to  issues  yet,  Peggy  — 
and  then  —  by  Heaven !  I  shallna'  forget  this. " 

"Ah,  I  ken,  Jock  —  but  I  would  he  hadna'  kissed  me." 

Her  face  flushed  and  trembled;  the  Earl  set  his  mouth 
dangerously  as  he  marked  her  wrathful  distress;  he  held  his 


32  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

hand  out  to  her  and  she  very  passionately  caught  hold  of  it. 

"We've  taken  enough  from  these  Macdonalds, "  she  cried. 
"I  saw  the  plunder  of  a  house  of  yours  to-day  —  and  murder- 
ed Campbells  feeding  the  eagles  — 

She  swung  round  on  him  with  tears  gathering  in  her  eyes : 
"Jock,  ye  are  almost  master  in  the  Hielands;  are  ye  going 
to  leave  this  knot  of  thieves  in  your  midst  to  harry  and  insult 
ye?" 

"Nay,"  cried  Breadalbane  fiercely.  "I'm  only  waiting,  ye 
ken  —  ye  canna  touch  the  Glencoe  men  openly  —  ye  might 
as  weel  try  to  hunt  the  eagles  off  Ben  Cruachan  as  the  Mac- 
donalds out  o'  Glencoe  —  but  if  they  dinna  take  the  oaths  — 
He  finished  with  one  of  his  sudden  smiles. 

"Yea,"  said  the  Countess  Peggy  breathlessly.  "Ye'll  have 
the  government  behind  ye  then,  they'll  be  rebels  and  pro- 
scribed men  —  ye'll  have  them  in  your  hand,  Jock.  Ah,  but 
do  ye  think  they  willna'  take  the  oaths  ?" 

Breadalbane  drew  her  down  beside  him  and  kissed  her 
flushed  forehead. 

"Dinna  fear,  Peggy;  not  ane  of  the  Hielanders  will  take  the 
oaths  —  or  if  Glengarry  or  Lochiel  do,  the  Macdonalds 
willna'." 

"Ah!"  she  took  a  deep  breath.  "And  then  ye  will  have  the 
law  to  help  ye. " 

"I  shall  get  letters  of  fire  and  sword  from  the  government," 
said  Breadalbane,  "and  clear  the  Hielands  of  the  Macdon- 
alds." 

There  fell  a  little  pause;  the  two  utterly  absorbed  in  them- 
selves and  each  other  did  not  notice  or  heed  the  falling  fire 
and  guttering  candles  or  the  lifting  wail  of  the  storm  without. 

The  Countess  spoke;  under  her  breath: 


JOCK  O'BREADALBANE'S  WIFE  33 

"But  at  Edinburgh  —  in  England,  where  they  want  the 
Hielands  quiet  —  will  they  no  demand  an  account  of  ye  ?  — 
will  they  support  ye  ?" 

The  room  was  growing  cold;  unconsciously  she  felt  it  and 
shivered,  drawing  closer  to  her  husband. 

"I  have  the  most  powerful  man  in  Scotland  behind  me," 
said  the  Earl  slowly.  "And  he  has  great  weight  in  England  — 
is  a  close  friend  of  the  King  —  and  he  is  no'  willing  for  the 
Hielands  to  take  the  oaths. " 

"Who  do  you  mean  ?"  she  questioned  eagerly. 

A  dying  log  on  the  hearth  fell  and  broke  into  a  shower  of 
sparks;  a  gust  of  wind  blew  down  the  chimney. 

"The  Master  .of  Stair,"  said  Breadalbane.  "Being  the 
Secretary  and  a  close  friend  of  the  King,  he  can  do  what  he 
will  with  Scotland." 

"Yet  I  do  think  he  is  the  most  hated  man  in  the  country," 
mused  the  Countess.  "I  did  notice  a  fury  of  hate  in  Edinburgh 
against  his  father  and  him  —  he  couldna'  be  more  unpopular. " 

"I  dinna  care,"  smiled  Breadalbane.  "He  has  the  power  — 
and  a  fine  ability.  He  wasna'  for  buying  the  Hielands.  Put  the 
money  into  powder  and  shot,  he  said  —  and  now,  when  we've 
been  dealing  with  them  for  two  years  in  vain  —  he  says  the 
same. " 

"Weel,  then,"  she  cried.  "All  ye  have  to  do  is  to  wait  till 
after  the  first  day  of  January.  Then  get  the  letters  of  fire  and 
sword  —  and  the  Master  of  Stair  will  support  ye. " 

"Both  he  and  his  father,"  he  answered.  "Both  the  Dal- 

rymples.  If  any  take  the  oaths,  weel,  they'll  be  within  the  law 

—  but,  as  the  King  said  to  Balcarras  —  let  those  who  stay 

without  the  law,  look  to  it  —  as  they  must  expect  to  be  left  to 

the  law." 


34  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

He  rose  abruptly  and  crossed  to  the  fire,  where  the  last 
light  from  the  glowing  embers  was  reflected  in  his  cuirass. 

His  wife  followed  him  with  shining  eyes;  it  was  the  first 
time  even  she  had  so  enjoyed  his  confidence;  the  first  time  he 
had  so  spoken  of  his  affairs,  though  he  had  always  been  assur- 
ed of  her  passionate  sympathy.  He  fell  into  silence  as  he  leaned 
against  the  heavy  chimneypiece  and  she  noticed  that  his 
delicate  face  had  fallen  into  lines  of  weariness. 

"Ye  look  tired,  Jock,"  she  said  tenderly. 

"Unlace  me,"  he  smiled.  "This  thing  is  heavy." 

She  came  up  and  unstrapped  his  armor;  as  he  shook  him- 
self free  of  it,  he  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"I  shallna'  need  to  be  riding  my  own  lands  armed  when  the 
Macdonalds  of  Glencoe  are  —  weel,  treated  as  to  their  des- 
serts, "  he  remarked  as  he  shook  out  his  crumpled  buff  coat. 

As  she  laid  down  his  cuirass  he  spoke  again : 

"What  was  the  name  of  this  Macdonald  to-day  ?"  he  asked 
quietly. 

"Ronald  —  the  chief's  son  he  said,"  she  answered. 

Breadalbane  yawned,  then  glanced  with  half -shut  eyes  at 
his  sword  hilt. 

"Ronald,  the  son  of  Makian,"  he  said  —  "maybe  the  laddie 
will  live." 

He  glanced  at  his  wife. 

"Ronald,  the  son  of  Makian,"  he  repeated.  "Weel,  a  Camp- 
bell always  has  a  vera  gude  memory. " 


CHAPTER  IV 
DELIA  FEATHERSTONEHAUGH 

IN  a  small  chamber  of  a  quiet  house  in  Glasgow,  a  girl 
was  standing  at  the  window  and  looking  down  the 
empty  street. 
The  November   evening  was  closing  in;  the  room 
somber  and  gloomy  at  any  time,  was  in  darkness  save  for  the 
fire  over  which  a  young  man  sat,  writing  on  a  paper  that  he 
held  on  his  knee.  The  firelight  showed  a  resolute  brown  face, 
close-clipped  brown  hair  and  a  large  figure  very  plainly  clad 
in  a  neat,  dark  cloth  suit. 

The  scanty  furniture  consisted  of  a  bureau,  a  few  chairs, 
and  a  small  table  piled  with  papers. 

"He  is  late,  Perseus,"  said  the  girl  in  a  tired  voice.  "It  struck 
four  some  time  since. " 

Both  her  accent  and  her  face  marked  her  as  English;  when 
the  man  glanced  up  it  was  easy  to  see  he  was  her  brother. 

"He  will  come,"  he  said  quietly.  "Why  not?"  And  he  fell 
to  his  busy  writing  again. 

"Why  not  ?"  echoed  the  girl  impatiently.  "I  think,  Perseus, 
there  are  many  reasons  why  a  gentleman  in  King  James's 
service  may  not  cross  England  and  Scotland  in  perfect  safety. " 

"I  have  perfect  confidence  in  Jerome  Caryl,"  answered  her 
brother,  this  time  without  an  upward  look.  "A  man  who  has 
been  an  adventurer  all  his  life  knows  how  to  play  the  spy. " 

She  let  the  curtain  fall. 

35 


36  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"I  wish  you  would  not  use  that  word,  Perseus,"  she  said 
vexedly. 

With  a  half -humorous  sigh  Sir  Perseus  Featherstonehaugh 
put  aside  the  writing  he  could  no  longer  see. 

"My  sweet  Delia,"  he  said.  "We  —  Jerome,  you,  and  I 
and  all  our  friends  represent  a  losing  or  a  lost  cause  — " 

"A  rightful  one,"  she  put  in. 

"Certainly,"  he  smiled,  "but  unfortunately  at  the  present, 
a  lost  one  —  we  are,  my  dear,  without  the  law  —  in  plain 
English,  Jacobite  spies  dabbling  in  high  treason  —  I  want 
you  to  understand  that,  Delia. " 

His  voice  fell  to  gravity  on  the  last  words,  but  the  girl  bit 
her  lip  and  tapped  her  foot  impatiently. 

"While  we  have  King  James's  countenance  we  can  never  be 
spies  —  or  guilty  of  treason  in  outwitting  his  enemies, "  she 
said  impetuously. 

"Nay,"  answered  Sir  Perseus,  "but  we  may  be  hanged,  my 
dear." 

Delia  Featherstonehaugh  flung  up  her  head :  "And  we  may 
give  the  King  again  his  kingdom, "  she  smiled. 

"God  grant  it,"  answered  her  brother  gently,  "but  before 
we  go  any  further  —  before  we  hear  Jerome's  news,  before 
we  make  any  more  plans  —  I  want  you  to  see  it  as  it  is  — 
Delia,  we  are  staking  our  lives  in  the  King's  service. " 

"But  you  would  not  turn  back!"  she  cried. 

"Why,  no,"  he  answered.  "But  you  are  not  bound  to  follow 
my  fortunes." 

Delia  swept  into  the  center  of  the  room,  her  heavy  satin 
dress  rustling;  a  noble  dim  figure  in  the  dusk. 

"Are  you  not  all  I  have,  Perseus?"  she  said  unsteadily. 
"Is  it  so  long  ago  since  father  was  slain  by  the  Boyne  and  we 


DELIA  FEATHERSTONEHAUGH  37 

vowed  to  serve  the  King  he  died  for  ?  Oh,  my  dear, why  should 
you  think  I  want  to  turn  aside  into  placid  safety  ?" 

"Delia !"  Sir  Perseus  held  out  his  hand,  "'tis  only  that  some- 
times I  think  you  do  not  see  the  danger  — 

"Why,  I  do  love  it,"  she  interrupted  gaily.  "The  excitement 
is  life  to  me  —  and  you  forget  —  are  there  so  few  faithful  in 
England  ?  We  are  only  two  of  thousands  who  plot,  and  wait 
and  long  for  the  rightful  King  again  I" 

With  a  little  laugh  she  came  behind  him  and  put  her  hand 
on  his  shoulder,  while  she  gazed  over  his  head  into  the  fire. 

"Yea,  we  will  do  it,"  said  Sir  Perseus  quietly.  "We  will  oust 
the  Dutchman,  I  think,  Delia  —  there  is  a  huge  discontent 
everywhere."  He  tapped  the  papers  he  had  been  writing, 
"there  —  in  my  reports  to  his  Majesty,  I  have  to  mention 
many  great  men  who  would  welcome  him  back  — "  he  smiled 
grimly.  "Many  of  them,  those  who  welcomed  William  — " 

"If  his  Majesty  would  but  himself  come  over,"  sighed 
Delia.  "I  think  all  England  would  rise  to  greet  him !" 

"Indeed,"  answered  her  brother,  "William  has  no  friend  in 
England  —  I  marvel  he  holds  the  throne  —  at  all  — 

"'Twill  not  be  for  long,"  cried  Delia,  with  glittering  eyes  — • 
"But  — hark!" 

A  knock  resounded  through  the  empty  house;  Sir  Perseus 
rose.  "'Tis  Jerome  Caryl,"  he  said. 

His  sister  gave  a  little  pant  of  suppressed  excitement;  the 
bold  and  restless  spirit  of  Jerome  Caryl  was  akin  to  her  own; 
he  was  the  soul  of  this  plot  in  which  she  was  engaged ;  of  her 
own  religion,  her  own  views;  a  man  whom  next  to  her  brother 
she  admired  of  all  others. 

And  for  six  months  she  had  not  seen  him;  the  while  he 
plotted  in  London,  they  plotted  in  Scotland;  he  might  have 


38  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

great  news  to  tell;  she  was  confident  his  fervor  and  ability 
could  remove  obstacles  that  to  the  slower  mind  of  her  brother 
seemed  insurmountable. 

Her  fingers  shaking,  she  lit  the  candles  on  the  chimney- 
piece;  as  the  pointed -flames  sprang  up  they  showed  the  face 
of  Delia;  a  strong  face  with  great  brown  eyes  and  a  passionate 
mouth;  a  low-browed  fair  face,  very  eager  and  bright  with  the 
thick  hazel  hair  falling  round  the  full,  curved  white  throat  and 
lace  collar. 

She  caught  up  one  of  the  candles  and  ran  out  on  to  the  head 
of  the  stairs. 

A  man  was  coming  up;  she  could  hear  the  jingle  of  his  spurs 
and  the  drag  of  his  sword. 

"Mr.  Caryl !"  she  cried,  leaning  over  the  baluster. 

He  came  now  into  the  circle  of  the  candle-light,  a  tall  figure 
in  steel  and  leather,  with  a  long,  dark  traveling  cloak  over  his 
shoulder. 

"Himself,  madam,"  he  answered,  and  looked  up  with  a 
smile. 

She  came  running  down  the  stairs  to  meet  him  and  gave 
him  her  hand  between  laughing  and  crying. 

"Oh,  sir,  Mr.  Caryl  —  you  have  some  news  ?"  she  panted. 

He  kissed  her  hand  ceremoniously.  "News  of  a  kind,  yes," 
he  answered  —  "and  you  ?" 

"Oh,  things  go  well  in  Scotland !"  she  cried,  "but  —  enter 
—  sir—" 

He  followed  her  into  the  room,  and  while  the  two  men  ex- 
changed greetings  she  eagerly  scanned  the  countenance  of  the 
new-comer. 

Jerome  Caryl  had  the  figure  as  well  as  the  dress  of  a  soldier; 
a  quiet,  easy  air,  a  soft  voice  and  the  face  of  a  woman  saint ;  a 


DELIA  FEATHERSTONEHAUGH  39 

face  that  seen  alone  none  would  have  ever  taken  for  that  of  a 
man,  so  perfect  was  the  contour  of  the  small,  regular  features, 
the  sweet  mouth,  the  straight  nose,  the  dimpled  chin,  the  large, 
soft,  melancholy  hazel  eyes,  the  brilliant,  smooth  complexion. 

Beside  the  rough  blunt  appearance  of  Sir  Perseus,  his  face, 
pale  with  fatigue,  looked  like  that  of  a  musing  girl ;  far  more 
soft  and  sweet  than  the  firm  features  of  Delia  Featherstone- 
haugh,  all  aglow  with  excitement. 

"How  go  things  in  London  ?"  asked  Sir  Perseus.  "We  have 
had  few  letters." 

"It  was  not  deemed  safe  to  write,"  answered  Jerome  Caryl 
in  his  low  melodious  voice.  "Pray,  Mistress  Delia  —  sit  and 
hearken  —  I  have  dined  —  I  am  in  want  of  nothing  save  the 
ear  of  my  friends  —  yet  —  have  you  nothing  to  tell  ?" 

Delia  was  stirring  the  fire  into  a  blaze;  she  looked  round 
with  an  eager  smile. 

"Perseus  hath  been  much  engaged,"  she  said.  "There  is 
great  discontent  here  —  and  the  Highlands  have  not  taken 
the  oaths  to  the  government  — " 

Perseus  glanced  affectionately  at  his  sister.  "Is  she  not  a 
valiant  plotter,  Jerome  ?"  he  said.  "Her  spirits  are  enough  to 
fire  a  losing  cause  —  but  have  we  told  you  —  we  have  here  in 
this  house  a  Highlander  —  a  Macdonald  of  Glencoe  ?"  He 
laughed,  but  Jerome  Caryl  looked  up  puzzled. 

"Was  it  well  to  trust  one  of  those  savages  ?"  he  asked. 

Sir  Perseus  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"He  knows  naught  of  us  —  I  found  him  some  weeks  ago 
half -dead  upon  the  mountains;  he  had  dragged  himself,  God 
knows  how  far,  on  a  broken  ankle,  then  fallen  in  a  swoon.  I 
could  not  leave  him  in  that  desolation  —  the  horse  I  rode  was 
stout :  I  brought  him  here. " 


40  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

A  smile  came  on  the  smooth  face  of  Jerome  Caryl. 

"Like  you,"  he  said,  "and  Miss  Delia  nursed  him,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

She  answered  quickly,  not  looking  at  him :  "He  is  almost 
mended  now  —  and  wild  to  return  —  he  is  not,  I  think,  very 
grateful." 

"Gaelic  is  one  of  Delia's  accomplishments,"  said  Sir  Per- 
seus; "I  do  not  understand  a  word  the  fellow  says. " 

The  subject  did  not  appear  to  interest  Jerome  Caryl;  he 
had  weightier  matters  on  his  mind. 

"What  was  you  doing  in  the  Highlands  ?"  he  asked  Perseus. 

"Why,  I  was  gathering  what  information  I  could  as  to  the 
submission  of  the  clans  —  January  first  is  the  last  day,  you 
know,  and  not  so  far  away. " 

Jerome  tapped  his  foot  thoughtfully. 

"Breadalbane  held  a  conference  at  Kilchurn,  I  heard,"  he 
remarked.  "But  it  has  come  to  nothing. " 

"Of  course,"  said  Sir  Perseus  dryly.  "The  government  had 
the  folly  to  send  a  Campbell  —  and  the  most  hated  of  all  the 
Campbells  to  treat. " 

"It  was  thought,"  answered  Jerome,  "that  it  would  be  to 
his  interest  to  quiet  the  Highlands,  but  he  has,  I  think,  found 
it  more  to  his  interest  to  keep  the  money  he  was  to  buy  them 
with." 

"God  knows,"  said  Sir  Perseus.  "I  think  his  strongest 
motive  is  not  money  —  but  hate. " 

Delia  broke  in  eagerly :  "You  cannot  guess  how  the  High- 
landers hate  the  Campbells,  Mr.  Caryl  —  this  Macdonald 
goes  white  to  think  of  them  — " 

Jerome  Caryl  lifted  his  head;  his  beautiful  face  was  set  and 
hard. 


DELIA  FEATHERSTONEHAUGH  41 

"Yes,"  he  said  quietly.  "The  Highlands  hate  Breadalbane 
—  the  Lowlands  hate  the  Master  of  Stair;  the  English  hate 
William  of  Orange  —  in  each  case  'tis  thousands  to  one  — ' 

Delia  cried  joyously: 

"Surely  that  means  all  hearts  turn  to  the  true  King  —  no 
government  can  surely  live  on  hate!" 

"Indeed,"  put  in  her  brother,  "I  do  think  this  seething  dis- 
content looks  well  for  us  —  what  do  you  say,  Jerome  ?  — 
the  odds  are  against  the  Dutchman." 

Jerome  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  then  gave  a  bitter 
little  laugh. 

"No!"  he  cried,  "the  odds  are  most  mightily  against  King 
James  —  and  even  with  the  three  kingdoms  behind  us  we 
could  do  nothing  against  these  men  —  nothing!" 

He  struck  his  hand  vehemently  on  his  sword-hilt. 

"I  have  seen  it  —  as  I  intrigued  and  waited  and  watched  in 
London  —  while  half  the  men  of  note  would  go  over  again  to 
King  James  and  the  other  half  follow  if  he  was  here  —  while 
the  people  grumble  and  curse  the  Dutchman  —  while  promises 
of  anything  may  be  had  for  the  asking,  still  three  men  hold  us 
in  check  —  three  men  whom  every  one  joins  in  loathing  — 
but,  by  Heaven,  they  hold  the  three  countries  with  a  power 
we  cannot  shake !" 

He  stopped,  flushed  with  the  force  of  his  words;  Delia 
looked  at  him  with  surprised,  indignant  eyes;  her  brother 
spoke. 

"What  are  these,  Jerome  ?" 

"William  Carstairs,  one;  the  Master  of  Stair,  two,  and  three? 
William  of  Orange." 

There  was  a  little  pause,  then  Delia  made  an  impatient 
movement  with  her  foot. 


42  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Three  men,  Mr.  Caryl!"  she  cried  with  flashing  eyes, 
"Have  we  not  many  threes  to  match  them  ?" 

"Miss  Delia,"  said  Jerome  Caryl,  "you  remember  what  the 
Irish  said  after  the  Boyne  ?  —  'Change  kings  and  we  will 
fight  it  again'  —  I  feel  like  that  now. " 

"Oh,  shame!"  cried  Delia. 

"You  seem  turned  rank  Williamite, "  remarked  Sir  Perseus, 
a  little  sourly. 

"I  am  not,"  was  the  firm  answer,  "but  I  see  what  a  rope  of 
sand  we  are  without  a  leader:  I  see  that  we  have  to  struggle 
against  a  man  whose  genius  has  made  him  arbitrator  of 
Europe  —  and  he  has  linked  himself  withWilliam  Carstairs  — ' 

"A  Scotch  minister  of  no  birth!"  interrupted  Delia. 

"One  of  the  cleverest  men  in  the  kingdom,"  said  Jerome, 
"and  the  Master  of  Stair  is  another  —  if  you  consider  the 
Highlands,  you  may  add  Breadalbane  for  a  fourth  —  call 
them  devils,  if  you  will,  but  they  are  men  impossible  to  de- 
feat." 

Sir  Perseus  rose  impatiently: 

"I  think  you  are  wrong,  Jerome  —  why,  Sir  John  Dal- 
rymple,  the  Master  of  Stair,  as  you  call  him,  hath  roused  such 
a  storm  against  himself  that  he  hardly  dares  to  show  himself 
in  Edinburgh  —  any  moment  he  might  be  arrested  by  the 
Parliament. " 

"Nevertheless,"  answered  Jerome,  "he  holds  Scotland  in 
the  hollow  of  his  hand,  he  is  a  close  friend  of  William  of 
Orange,  all  powerful  at  St.  James's,  he  is  hand  and  glove  with 
Breadalbane  and  Carstairs  and  his  father,  Sir  James  —  curse 
him."  He  brought  the  last  words  out  so  fiercely  that  the  others 
started. 

"They  defeat  me  at  every  turn,  these  men,"  he  continued 


DELIA  FEATHERSTONEHAUGH  43 

passionately.  "But,  by  God,  they  shall  not  get  the  Highlands !" 
He  turned  the  soft  face  that  was  at  variance  with  his  speech 
toward  Perseus.  "That  is  the  question  of  issue  now,"  he  said. 
"The  Highlanders  must  take  the  oaths,  the  government 
decrees  it. " 

"Ay, "  answered  Sir  Perseus,  "and  the  government  does  not 
want  the  decree  carried  out.  The  government  may,  but  the 
Master  of  Stair  and  Breadalbane  have  other  plans  —  don't 
you  see  ?" 

"Yes,"  nodded  Sir  Perseus,  "they  want  the  Highlands  to 
put  themselves  outside  the  law." 

"So  that  you  may  quiet  them  forever  with  the  cold  steel," 
finished  Jerome.  "Breadalbane  wants  to  wipe  out  the  hated 
clans  —  the  Master  of  Stair  wants  to  exterminate  this  pariah 
race  that  harries  the  government  —  but  we  —  we  want  to 
keep  alive  the  Highlands  for  King  James  —  and  we  will  do 
it!" 

"Then  they  must  take  the  oaths  ?"  whispered  Delia  breath- 
lessly. 

"And  break  them  when  need  be,"  answered  Jerome,  "but 
they  must  take  them  —  so  that  those  who  count  upon  their 
refusal  may  be  defeated." 

"The  Master  of  Stair  does  not  think  they  will  ?"  asked  Sir 
Perseus. 

"No  —  nor  yet  Breadalbane  —  they  count  upon  them 
refusing  to  take  the  oath  a  Campbell  administers  — 
they  are  waiting  eagerly  for  the  first  of  January  —  then 
—  letters  of  fire  and  sword  and  war  to  the  death  in  the  High- 
lands." 

"What  can  we  do  ?"  asked  Delia  eagerly. 

Jerome  Caryl  lifted  his  intense  eyes  to  her  flushed  face. 


44  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Miss  Delia  —  the  Highlands  must  be  warned  of  the  ven- 
geance preparing  for  them." 

The  girl  nodded,  with  sparkling  eyes;  but  Sir  Perseus  ques- 
tioned : 

"How?" 

"That,"  answered  Jerome  Caryl,  "is  what  I  have  come  to 
consult  with  you  about  — -  after  I  had  clearly  seen  the  objects 
of  these  men  there  seemed  but  that  one  thing  to  do  —  to  warn 
the  Highlands  and  give  them  King  James's  permission  to  take 
the  oaths." 

"But  — "  said  Sir  Perseus,  "do  we  not  by  that  lose  the  sup- 
port of  the  Highlands  —  if  we  should  —  as  I  hope  to  — 
organize  a  rising  in  Scotland  ?" 

"No  —  a  Highlander  does  not  look  on  an  oath  as  a  sacred 
thing,  my  dear  Perseus,  'tis  said  Breadalbane  himself  tells 
them  to  take  Prince  William's  money  to  spend  for  King  James 
—  and  under  what  possible  pretext  can  we  continue  to  ask 
them  to  hold  out  ?  The  King's  last  gift  was  a  few  bottles  of 
wine  —  let  them  take  the  thousands  of  the  government  and 
buy  muskets  with  it  for  our  use. " 

"Do  you  think,"  answered  Sir  Perseus  —  "that  we  can 
overcome  the  fierce  hate  of  the  Campbells  ?  Will  the  clans 
submit  to  Breadalbane  whatever  we  say  ?" 

"If  they  are  frightened  enough,"  said  Jerome.  "If  they 
realize  that  all  England  is  behind  him  they  will  submit." 

Delia  broke  in  suddenly: 

"And  my  Highlander  shall  take  the  warning,"  she  cried. 
"He  shall  carry  home  this  news." 

Jerome  looked  up  interested:  "A  Macdonald,  did  you  say  ?" 

"Ronald  Macdonald,"  she  answered,  "and  son  of  the  chief 
of  his  clan." 


DELIA  FEATHERSTONEHAUGH  45 

"He  may  be  trusted,"  said  Sir  Perseus,  "for  his  very 
simplicity.  He  could  take  letters  to  Lochiel,  Glengarry, 
Keppoch  —  I  know  not  about  his  gratitude.  He  is,  I  think, 
faithful." 

"I  will  answer  for  him,"  said  Delia.  "Indeed,  I  can  assure 
you  of  his  great  honesty. " 

Jerome  Caryl  smiled. 

"Why  —  you  seem  to  know  him  very  well,  Miss  Delia." 

She  answered  his  look  with  a  straight  glance.  "I  have  talked 
to  him  —  he  has  told  me  things  of  himself  and  his  people." 

"They  come  from  Glencoe  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "In  our  tongue,  you  know,  it  is  the 
Glen  of  Weeping  —  they  call  it  so  because  of  the  mists  that 
hang  there  day  and  night  —  'tis  an  awful  place  in  the  heart  of 
the  Campbell  country. " 

"And  they  are  murdering  thieves,  are  they  not  ?"  questioned 
Jerome. 

Delia  lifted  her  strong  face,  flushed  rosy  from  the  fire:  "I 
think  these  Highlanders  have  other  standards  than  ours," 
she  said  quietly.  "They  own  stronger  virtues  and  franker 
vices." 

"The  same, "  returned  Jerome,  "may  be  said  of  all  savages, 
Miss  Delia." 

Sir  Perseus  interposed : 

"But  I  think  the  fellow  is  to  be  trusted,  and  who  but  a  born 
Highlander  could  traverse  this  chaotic  country  with  safety 
and  advantage  ?  " 

Jerome  Caryl  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  stirred  the  log  on 
the  hearth  with  the  toe  of  his  boot. 

"Well,  let  the  matter  rest.  Only  the  thing  must  be  done  if 
we  are  to  defeat  Breadalbane  and  the  Master  of  Stair. " 


46  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

Sir  Perseus  laughed:  "Why,  I  believe  you  dislike  the  Sec- 
retary as  much  as  the  Edinburgh  mob  do." 

"I  hate  his  power,"  answered  Jerome.  "The  way  he  rules 
us  all  against  our  will  —  he  and  he  only  prevents  Scotland 
returning  to  King  James  — 

"They  do  say  he  is  accursed  of  a  cursed  family, "  said  Delia. 
"There  are  horrid  mysteries  whispered  of  him  —  you  have 
heard  ?" 

"Yes,  and  I  do  not  think  them  all  vulgar  spite  —  they  are 
a  dark  race,  these  Dalrymples, "  answered  Jerome. 

There  was  a  pause,  then  Delia  spoke:  "Have  you  ever  seen 
him  ?"  she  asked. 

"Once  —  in  Edinburgh  —  he  was  riding  an  ash-colored 
horse;  there  was  a  great  train  of  rabble  at  his  heels,  who  hooted 
and  pelted  him  —  I  did  not  see  his  face;  he  had  his  hat  over 
his  eyes  and  never  looked  back. " 

"He  is  used  to  being  mobbed,"  said  Sir  Perseus;  "they  say 
that  is  why  he  left  Edinburgh." 

"I  was  of  the  mob,"  said  Jerome  Caryl  fiercely,  "and  I  said 
with  the  mob  what  I  say  now:  damnation  to  the  Master  of 
Stair!" 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  FOLLY  OF  DELIA 

DELIA    FEATHERSTONEHAUGH   shut  the 
door  on  Jerome  Caryl  and  her  brother  and  began 
mounting  the  stairs  of  the  quiet  little  house.  She 
could  hear  the  low  murmur  of  the  men's  voices 
through  the  frail  door  and  a  fine  pencil  of  yellow  light  fell  be- 
tween the  paneling  onto  the  blackness  without.   Delia  stood 
still  a  moment  in  an  attitude  of  hesitation,  then  went  on  lightly 
and  swiftly. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  she  fumbled  in  the  dark  along  the 
wall,  found  what  she  sought,  a  door-handle,  turned  it  and 
entered.  She  was  in  a  small  room  with  a  sloping  roof  and  a 
deep  bow-window;  there  was  no  light,  but  through  this  window 
poured  a  great  flood  of  moonshine  that  showed  the  plaster 
walls,  the  simple  wooden  furniture  and  the  figure  of  a  man 
wrapped  in  a  plaid,  who  leaned  on  his  elbow  at  the  window  and 
gazed  over  the  city. 

The  rough  outline  of  his  profile  was  clear  against  the  square 
of  cold  blue  sky,  and  above  the  housetops  above  him  hung  the 
great  white  moon. 

Delia  let  the  door  slip  into  its  latch  with  a  click,  and  he 
turned  his  head. 

"You  are  longing  to  be  away,"  she  said  in  her  English 
Gaelic.  "And  why  have  you  no  light,  Macdonald  ?" 

"I  have  no  need,"  he  said  mournfully. 

47 


48  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

Delia  gave  a  nervous  little  laugh  and  came  up  to  him. 

"Why,  you  are  well  now,"  she  said,  "and  will  soon  he  free  — 
you  have  no  need  to  brood  in  the  dark. " 

He  shook  his  head  gloomily. 

"  'Tis  always  dark  to  me,"  he  answered.  "I  would  I  had 
died." 

There  was  a  soft  stir  of  satin  as  Delia  seated  herself  on  a 
wooden  stool  beyond  the  patch  of  moonlight;  out  of  the 
shadows  came  her  hesitating  voice. 

"Dq  not  talk  so  —  we  have  a  mission  for  you,  my  brother 
and  I." 

He  made  no  answer,  only  dropped  his  head  into  his  hand 
and  stared  at  the  moon.  Delia  locked  her  fingers  together; 
she  seemed  to  have  to  make  an  effort  to  speak,  at  last  she  told 
him  of  the  discussion  between  her  brother  and  Jerome  Caryl, 
tried  to  put  it  forcibly  and  clearly  and  ended  by  offering  him 
the  mission  of  carrying  the  warning  to  the  Highlands  that 
they  must  take  the  oaths  of  submission  to  King  William. 

He  listened  as  if  she  spoke  of  something  of  no  importance; 
the  names  of  the  rival  kings,  of  the  Master  of  Stair,  had  clearly 
no  meaning  to  him,  but  he  flushed  when  she  mentioned 
Breadalbane. 

"The  others  may  do  what  they  will,"  he  flung  out, 
"but  the  Macdonalds  of  Glencoe  will  never  submit  to  a 
Campbell." 

Delia  strove,  somewhat  falteringly,  to  show  him 
the  unreasonableness  of  this;  presently  he  said  drearily: 
"For  the  sake  of  your  bread  that  I've  eaten,  I  will  do  your 
errand. " 

A  silence  fell.  Delia  put  her  foot  forward  into  the  moon- 
light, and  watched  the  long  shadow  it  made;  she  shivered 


THE  FOLLY  OF  DELIA  49 

once  or  twice  for  the  room  was  cold.  Ronald  Macdonald 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  the  moment  her  voice  ceased; 
she  looked  up  at  him  and  said,  faintly: 

"You  promised  to  tell  me  before  you  left,  Macdonald,  the 
adventure  that  brought  you  to  the  plight  my  brother  found 
you  in." 

That  appeared  to  rouse  him;  he  looked  round  sharply. 

"Ye  found  me  near  to  death,  did  ye  not  ?"  he  demanded. 

"You  have  been  in  great  fever,"  she  answered  softly.  "Yes, 
very  sick. " 

"Ah !"  He  drew  himself  up  in  the  window-seat  and  frowned 
reflectively.  "I  think  she  was  a  Campbell." 

"Who  ? "  asked  Delia,  a  little  breathlessly. 

He  did  not  heed  her  question.  "She  was  like  none  I  have 
ever  seen,"  he  went  on.  "I  would  have  fought  a  clan  for  her  — 
she  wore  a  coat  of  the  Saxon  red,  but  she  was  of  our  country  — 
a  Campbell  —  was  she  a  cursed  Campbell  ?" 

"Who  was  she  ?"  said  Delia  again,  still  so  faintly  that  he  did 
not  hear. 

"Certainly  she  lied  to  me,"  he  continued  moodily.  "And 
*fair  and  false  as  a  Campbell,'  they  say  —  she  fooled  me.  I 
would  I  had  killed  her  before  I  let  her  fool  me." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  spoken  of  this  mysterious 
woman.  Delia  fumbled  in  vain  for  the  meaning. 

"What  was  she  like  ?"  she  asked. 

He  flushed  and  turned  his  frank  eyes  toward  her. 

"She  had  hair  of  the  Campbell  red,  and  curly  like  little  oak 
leaves  round  her  face;  her  eyes  were  like  a  wildcat's,  that  the 
light  runs  in  and  out  of;  her  mouth  was  bright  as  blood,  and 
her  face  white  and  sharp ;  she  coughed  and  shivered,  her  voice 
was  very  cold.  I  kissed  her  and  she  would  have  killed  me  for  it 


50  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

—  yet  could  it  have  been  only  that  ?  —  I  think  she  was  a 
Campbell." 

He  sat  up  and  gazed  earnestly  into  the  shadows  where  Delia 
sat;  his  plaid  had  fallen  back  and  showed  the  rough  hide  coat 
underneath  and  the  strong  lines  of  his  bare  throat.  Delia 
laughed. 

"Whoever  she  was  I  think  you  love  her,  Macdonald,"  she 
said. 

"I  want  her,"  he  answered  simply.  "I  want  to  look  at  her 
again,  to  touch  her,  to  hear  her.  If  she  is  a  Campbell  I  hate 
her  —  yet  I  want  her  —  and  I  cannot  rest  for  this  desire. " 

Delia  stood  up;  there  was  a  gleam  of  satin  as  she  moved,  a 
quick  rustle;  she  had  her  hands  on  her  bosom  and  they  rose 
and  fell  very  quickly. 

"Did  she  shoot  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yea,"  he  answered.  "Against  the  mist  I  saw  her  harness 
shine,  and  like  the  sun  was  her  yellow  hair, —  she  leaned  from 
the  saddle  and  fired  —  but  I  had  kissed  her. "  His  breath  came 
fast.  He  smiled.  "I  held  her  back  against  the  rowan-tree,  the 
berries  all  mingled  with  her  fallen  curls  —  I  kissed  her !  She 
called  out  in  your  Southern  tongue  —  then  she  said,  "You 
have  put  that  between  us  that  I  shall  not  forget,"  and  her 
white  lids  dropped  till  her  red  lashes  touched  her  cheek  — 
and  I  ...  I  cannot  rest. " 

Delia  Featherstonehaugh  laughed  as  relief  to  the  effect  of 
the  romantic  wording  of  the  soft  tongue  and  the  white  cold- 
ness of  the  moonlight;  she  steadied  herself  with  the  thought  of 
her  brother  and  Jerome  Caryl  talking  (very  practically)  below. 

"You  are  free  to  go  when  you  will,  Macdonald,"  she  said. 
"Only  —  if  you  will  see  my  brother  first  and  take  his  message 
to  the  clans." 


THE  FOLLY  OF  DELIA  51 

She  saw  his  eyes  open,  with  a  quick  delight,  she  thought. 
He  turned  his  face  full  toward  her  for  the  first  time. 

"I  will  do  anything  you  wish,"  he  said.  "If  I  may  go  at  once 
-to-night." 

She  stiffened  and  drew  further  away. 

"Why  not?"  she  answered.  "You  are  well  enough."  Her 
manner  was  unnaturally  cold,  but  he  took  no  heed  of  her;  she 
waited  for  her  answer  in  vain.  "Why  not  ?"  she  repeated  at 
length.  "We  only  kept  you  here  during  your  sickness,  Mac- 
donald." 

Something  in  her  tone  seemed  to  ask  for  gratitude,  the  ex- 
pression of  some  thankfulness  for  his  life  saved,  but  the  in- 
flection was  too  delicate  for  him  to  notice  it. 

"I  will  take  your  message,"  he  repeated.  "Only  you  must 
not  ask  us  to  take  the  oaths  to  a  Campbell. " 

"Not  to  a  Campbell,"  she  said.  "To  the  Prince's  Govern- 
ment —  but  will  you  come  and  see  my  brother  ?" 

Instinctive  fear  and  dislike  of  the  Southern  struggled  with 
the  Macdonald's  desire  for  freedom;  he  reflected  awhile,  then 
gave  a  grave  consent. 

Delia,  watching  him,  was  quick  to  see  that  his  impulse 
was  to  leave  without  a  word,  stride  off  with  no  backward  look 
at  the  hated  town.  With  her  head  held  very  stately  high  she 
preceded  him  down  the  stairs  and  flung  open  the  parlor  door. 

The  two  men  turned  at  her  entrance.  She  made  a  little 
gesture  toward  Macdonald,  and  spoke  in  English. 

"My  Highlander  —  and  he  is  so  eager  to  leave  us,  Perseus, 
he  would  do  anything  —  he  will  take  your  message. " 

Crossing  to  the  fire,  she  seated  herself,  leaving  Macdonald 
in  the  doorway.  He  eyed  the  two  Saxons  with  frank  interest; 
his  glance  rested  long  on  the  beautiful  face  of  Jerome  Caryl. 


52  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"I  am  to  translate,  Perseus,"  said  Delia.  "What  do  you 
want  to  say  ?" 

Jerome  looked  at  the  huge  Highlander  with  approval. 

"Ask  him  to  sit  down,"  he  said.  "He  looks  honest." 

Delia  obeyed  with  an  air  almost  of  disdain ;  Jerome,  glanc- 
ing at  her,  wondered  what  had  damped  her  eager  spirits;  she 
was  very  grave  and  pale;  her  eyes  were  fixed  with  a  curious 
expression  on  Macdonald;  her  mouth  had  a  little  lift  of 
scorn. 

She  sat  so,  very  still,  translating  her  brother's  questions 
and  explanations  into  Gaelic,  and  Jerome  Caryl  watched  her. 

Macdonald  listened  with  gravity  and  attention,  appeared 
to  understand  what  was  asked  of  him  and  received  into  his 
keeping  the  letters  to  the  Highland  chiefs  with  a  solemn 
promise  to  deliver  them. 

Sir  Perseus  gave  him  a  rough  map  of  his  route  from  Glas- 
gow to  Glencoe,  a  pistol  and  a  few  crowns. 

These  last  he  respected  as  useless ;  he  was  doubtful,  too,  of 
the  pistol,  but  finally  stuck  it  in  his  belt.  Jerome  Caryl  offered 
to  see  him  on  his  way  beyond  the  town  gates. 

Macdonald  declined,  gazing  from  his  high  window  he  had 
marked  the  gates  and  could  well  find  them.  With  cordialities 
on  the  part  of  Sir  Perseus,  and  shy  reserve  from  the  High- 
lander, they  took  leave  of  each  other. 

"I  will  light  you,"  said  Delia. 

She  rose  and  took  up  a  candle  and  led  the  vvay  down-stairs ; 
Ronald  Macdonald,  light-footed  as  a  cat,  followed. 

In  the  narrow  little  hall  she  turned  and  faced  him;  in  the 
circle  of  the  candle-light  her  brown  hair  glittered  with  threads 
of  gold  and  the  yellow  satin  of  her  gown  rippled  into  reflec- 
tions and  shadows. 


THE  FOLLY  OF  DELIA  53 

"Maybe  you  will  meet  the  lady  with  the  red  curls  again," 
she  said. 

He  looked  curiously  at  the  Saxon  woman  who  had  nursed 
him;  his  blue  eyes  held  some  wonder;  he  had  hardly  realized 
her  as  yet. 

"  'Tis  late  to  start  on  a  journey,"  continued  Delia;  "dark 
already. " 

"Day  and  night  are  one  to  me,"  he  answered. 

"And  you  are  very  eager  to  be  gone,"  she  finished  with  a 
faint  smile. 

He  looked  at  her  half-hesitatingly. 

"You  have  been  very  hospitable  to  one  not  of  your  race," 
he  said  slowly.  "Beyond  Dunblane,  on  the  beginning  of  the 
Highlands,  lives  an  old  shepherd  who  knows  me  well  —  if  you 
ever  need  me  send  to  him  and  I  shall  hear." 

She  lifted  her  head. 

"I  shall  ask  for  no  gratitude,  Macdonald,"  she  said  gravely 
and  proudly.  "Nor  am  I  like  to  need  you  —  I  have  my  own 
kin." 

A  puzzled  expression  crossed  his  face. 

"Your  brother  is  a  Saxon,"  he  answered.  "Most  Saxons 
would  have  shot  me  where  I  lay. " 

Delia  Featherstonehaugh  smiled  faintly: 

"My  brother  is  a  gentleman." 

"And  I  am  a  prince  of  the  Macdonalds,"  said  the  High- 
lander, "and  I  can  bring  two  hundred  men  to  serve  you  when 
you  will.  They  would  give  their  lives  to  one  who  had  given 
Ronald  Macdonald  his." 

This  sudden  high-handed  overpaying  of  what  she  had  done 
at  a  moment  when  she  was  the  most  considering  him  ungrate- 
ful, brought  a  quick  flush  of  shame  into  her  cheeks. 


54  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"I  pray  you  do  not  speak  of  it,"  she  said  faintly. 

She  was  leaning  against  the  wall  and  the  candle  shook  so  in 
her  hand  that  her  shadow  waved  and  danced  behind  her  on 
the  paneling;  she  was  very  much  aware  of  the  nearness  of  his 
magnificent  presence  and  the  frank  half-wonder  of  his  blue 
eyes  turned  on  her,  though  her  own  were  very  resolutely  fixed 
upon  her  feet. 

"Unbar  the  door,"  she  asked  him,  "  'tis  too  heavy  for  me." 

He  bent  over  the  iron  bolts;  as  he  turned  his  back  she 
glanced  once  up  then  down  again. 

There  was  a  hoarse  creaking  and  the  door  swung  slowly 
open  on  the  violet  night;  it  was  bitter  cold;  beneath  the  rising 
moon  great  masses  of  gray  clouds  lay  piled,  and  a  low  stinging 
wind  was  abroad. 

Macdonald  stepped  over  the  threshold  and  set  his  face 
toward  the  gates;  a  little  wild  smile  crossed  his  face. 

"Farewell,"  he  said  absently,  and  turned  to  leave. 

A  gust  of  wind  blew  out  the  candle  and  Delia  let  it  drop; 
with  a  swish  of  skirts  she  came  out  into  the  cobbled  road,  her 
hair  blown  about  her  face. 

"Macdonald,"  she  said;  he  turned  and  gazed  down  at  her; 
the  moonlight  lay  on  her  from  head  to  foot;  she  was  pale  and 
her  eyes  looked  preternaturally  large. 

"Macdonald,"  she  repeated,  then  seemed  to  fumble  for  her 
words,  "Do  you  understand?  —  you  must  take  the  oaths." 
She  laid  her  hand  on  the  corner  of  his  plaid  with  a  timid 
eagerness  that  had  its  effect. 

"We  will  go  to  Breadalbane's  conference,"  he  answered, 
"and  if  the  others  submit  — 

"There  must  be  no  'if'!"  she  cried  impetuously.  "Don't 
you  see  ?  Take  the  oaths  or  woe,  woe  to  Glencoe !  For  the 


THE  FOLLY  OF  DELIA  55 

Campbells  will  get  letters  of  fire  and  sword  against  you,  and 
the  whole  strength  of  England  would  be  behind  them !" 

He  appeared  to  suddenly  give  heed  to  some  of  the  danger 
threatening;  his  serious  face  darkened. 

"Maybe  we  will  take  the  oaths  —  "  he  answered  gloomily, 
"but  not  to  Breadalbane." 

"Lochiel,  Glengarry  and  Keppoch  will  take  them,"  she 
said  eagerly.  "Why  not  you  ?" 

He  turned  on  her  fiercely:  "Ye  are  Saxon!  Ye  cannot 
fathom !  We  hate  the  Campbells !" 

He  loosened  his  plaid  almost  roughly  from  her  grasp  and 
was  gone  at  a  swinging  pace  down  the  empty  street. 

Delia  stood  where  he  had  left  her ;  she  put  her  loosened  hair 
back  and  stared  after  him;  she  shivered  yet  did  not  know  it 
was  cold;  a  few  houses  off  a  flickering  oil  lamp  hung  across 
the  street;  she  waited  for  the  great  figure  to  show  beneath  it, 
thinking  perhaps  he  might  look  back  since  there  he  reached 
the  turn  of  the  road. 

She  saw  him  pass  from  the  moonlight  into  the  lamplight, 
then  disappear  into  the  dark  shadow  of  the  houses  beyond. 
He  had  not  turned  his  head,  but  with  light  and  quickened 
pace  had  gone. 

Delia  Featherstonehaugh  went  into  the  house  —  shut  the 
door  and  slowly  mounted  the  stairs.  She  could  hear  her 
brother  and  Jerome  Caryl  talking  in  the  parlor  and  the  old 
woman  who  was  their  only  servant  moving  about  below;  she 
avoided  both  and  went  straight  to  her  own  room. 

It  was  a  cheerless  poor  place;  as  Delia  lit  the  lamp  and 
looked  round  a  vague,  sick  longing  took  her  heart. 

She  had  never  known  a  home  or  wished  for  one ;  even  when 
her  father  was  alive  they  had  been  desperately  poor  and  she 


56  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

had  alternated  between  a  foreign  con  vent  and  a  Scotch  lodging, 
according  as  the  fortunes  of  her  father's  master,  the  Duke  of 
York,  had  shifted. 

There  had  been  some  little  prosperity  for  them  when  the 
Duke,  as  King  James,  came  to  the  throne;  of  that  now  nothing 
remained  save  the  empty  baronetcy  that  her  brother  now  held 
and  the  memory  of  her  father's  death  at  the  Boyne. 

Yet  she  had  been  happy. 

She  went  on  her  knees  by  her  bed  and  buried  her  face  in 
the  pillows;  it  was  strange  to  feel  suddenly  tired  and  lonely; 
she  was  half -frightened  at  the  heaviness  of  her  heart. 

After  a  while  she  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  shudder  between 
shame  and  fear;  she  felt  restless,  distracted,  incapable  of  any 
continued  thought. 

She  opened  the  door  and  looked  out. 

The  house  seemed  quiet ;  she  crept  down-stairs  and  entered 
the  parlor. 

It  was  empty,  but  the  light  still  burning.  Delia,  suddenly 
aware  that  she  was  numb  with  cold,  drew  a  chair  to  the  fire 
and  held  her  hands  to  the  flames.  Sitting  so,  she  fell  into  dreams 
and  did  not  notice  when  the  fire  sank  and  died  and  the  log  fell 
into  ashes  at  her  feet;  her  thoughts  were  more  real  than  the 
room;  she  suddenly  called  out  at  them  aloud  and  clasped 
her  hands  passionately,  then,  startled  at  herself,  looked 
round. 

The  other  side  of  the  hearth  stood  Jerome  Caryl,  his  mel- 
ancholy hazel  eyes  fixed  on  her. 

"Mr.  Caryl !"  she  cried  and  flushed  scarlet. 

His  small  mouth  curved  into  a  smile.  "Forgive  me,"  he  said 
softly.  "I  startled  you  — " 

She  recovered  herself  with  a  half -laugh.  "I  thought  you  were 


THE  FOLLY  OF  DELIA  57 

gone  with  Perseus  —  or  abed,"  she  said,  "and  I  —  I  have  let 
the  fire  out. " 

She  spoke  hurriedly  and  the  color  receding  from  her  face, 
left  her  very  white. 

Jerome  seated  himself.  "Miss  Delia,"  he  said,  "this  is  a 
miserable  life  for  you." 

"Oh,  no,"  she  answered.  "No." 

"Yes,"  he  insisted  gently.  "For  a  woman  and  a  lady,  a 
miserable  life;  you  are  very  heroic,  Miss  Delia,  to  give  up  so 
much  for  King  James." 

"You  forget,  Mr.  Caryl,  that  I  have  no  alternative."  She 
smiled  frankly  at  him.  "And  I  am  a  born  plotter,"  she  added, 
"and  sanguine  —  so  content,  Mr.  Caryl. " 

A  silence  fell  between  them;  she  turned  her  head  away  and 
fell  to  twisting  her  fingers  together  in  her  lap ;  he  could  see  her 
profile  in  pure  strong  lines  against  the  background  of  shadows, 
the  curve  of  her  tliroat  into  the  lace  collar  and  the  loosened 
knot  of  dull  brown  curls  in  her  neck;  he  studied  her  with 
gentle  melancholy  eyes  and  his  mouth  drooped  with  lines  of 
musing.  Presently  the  girl  spoke,  shaking  off  the  spell  of  the 
silence  with  an  effort. 

"Mr.  Caryl  —  do  you  think  the  Highlands  will  take  the 
oath?" 

"I  hope  so  —  most  fervently,"  he  answered.  "Indeed,  I 
think  so  — " 

"All  of  them  ?"  she  asked,  and  her  voice  faltered  a  little. 

Jerome  Caryl  considered. 

"Some  might  hate  the  Campbells  more  than  they  feared  the 
government,"  he  said,  "but  it  would,  Miss  Delia,  hardly 
matter  —  they  would  pay  the  price  —  they  could  not  involve 
the  others." 


58  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Pay  the  price,"  she  repeated.  "What  would  that  be?  — 
what  would  the  government  do  to  those  who  did  not  take  the 
oaths  ?" 

She  turned  full  toward  him  with  grave,  intent  eyes. 

"  'Tis  not  a  question  of  the  government,"  answered  Caryl. 
"But  of  Breadalbane  and  the  Master  of  Stair  —  they  are  wait- 
ing very  eagerly,  Miss  Delia,  for  the  first  of  January  to  pass, 
and  they  are  preparing  a  great  vengeance  against  those  who 
shall  then  be  outside  the  law." 

"They  would  be  pitiless,  you  think  ?"  she  questioned 
breathlessly. 

"Yes,"  said  Jerome  Caryl. 

She  moved  impetuously  in  her  chair.  "Why  ?"  she  asked, 
"I  can  understand  Breadalbane  —  but  why  the  Master  of 
Stair  ?  What  has  he  against  the  Highlands  ?" 

"The  contempt  of  the  statesman  for  the  savage,"  Caryl 
answered  with  a  half-smile.  "The  intolerant  arrogance  of  the 
powerful  against  those  who  oppose  him,  and  the  haughty 
resolution  of  an  imperious  soul,  Miss  Delia. " 

"I  loathe  his  make,"  she  cried.  "Hard  and  cruel  —  I  have 
heard  horrid  tales  of  him  —  and  how  he  is  accursed  —  he  is  a 
fitting  servant  of  William  of  Orange !" 

The  color  had  come  into  her  face;  she  set  her  lips  resolutely 
and  flung  up  her  head. 

"Do  you  think  that  the  Macdonalds  of  Glencoe  will  take 
the  oaths  ?"  she  asked  abruptly. 

"I  cannot  tell, "  he  answered  gravely. 

"And  if  they  did  not  — -"  she  stopped,  then  went  on  bravely. 
"They  are  in  the  heart  of  the  Campbell  country  —  I  suppose 
- 1  mean,  do  you  think  —  Breadalbane  would  —  leave  any 
alive  ?" 


THE  FOLLY  OF  DELIA  59 

"Nay,  I  cannot  tell,"  said  Jerome  Caryl,  "I  think  it  is  not 
likely  that  he  would  forego  this  chance  against  his  ancient 
enemies." 

She  rose  up  suddenly  and  her  clasped  hands  fell  apart  and 
clenched  at  her  sides. 

"Ah !"  she  cried. 

Then  she  caught  his  eyes  on  her  and  gave  a  faint  laugh. 

"Mr.  Caryl,"  she  began.  She  could  get  no  further;  her  voice 
broke;  she  put  her  trembling  hand  to  her  mouth  and  stared 
down  at  him. 

He  rose. 

"Miss  Delia,"  he  said  gently,  "what  is  it  to  you  that  the 
Macdonalds  should  take  the  oaths  ? " 

The  direct  question  threw  her  off  her  defenses;  she  gave 
him  a  terrified  glance  and  sank  into  the  chair,  turning  away 
her  head. 

"What  is  it  to  you  ?"  he  repeated  softly. 

Her  voice  came  muffled  over  her  shoulder:  "Why,  nothing 
—  only  —  you  see  —  I  - 

He  saw  her  shoulders  heave,  and  bent  over  her.  She  was 
sobbing;  he  could  see  the  tears  glittering  on  her  cheek;  with  a 
great  effort  she  tried  for  control. 

"I  am  tired  —  and  excited,  Mr.  Caryl  —  don't  heed  me." 

He  stood  still  and  silent,  watching  her,  his  soft  mouth 
curved  into  a  half -sad  smile;  the  light  from  the  flaring  candle 
and  his  flickering  shadow  rose  and  fell  over  her,  now  obscur- 
ing, now  revealing  her  bent  head,  and  stooping  shoulders. 

"  'Tis  nothing,"  she  said,  stifling  her  sobs. 

"Miss  Delia,"  said  Jerome  Caryl,  "I  think  it  is  a  great 
deal." 

She  suddenly  broke  down  beyond  concealment.  "I  think 


60  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

my  heart  is  broken, "  she  whispered  between  passionate  sobs 
"I  think  I  am  mad  —  oh,  —  I  am  ashamed !  —  ashamed  I" 

She  struggled  up,  hiding  her  scarlet,  tear-stained  face. 

"Think  me  mad,"  she  whispered  through  her  fingers,  "and 
forget  —  I  am  ashamed  —  and  most  unhappy  — 

She  leaned  her  forehead  against  the  chimneypiece  and  sobbed 
afresh;  her  yellow  skirt  trailed  in  the  dead  ashes  on  the  hearth, 
and  from  head  to  foot  she  shuddered. 

Jerome  Caryl  was  neither  discomposed  nor  confused;  he 
surveyed  her  agitation  with  a  tender  calmness  and  his  strange 
melancholy  smile  deepened. 

"I  think  we  can  make  the  Macdonalds  take  the  oaths,  Miss 
Delia,"  he  said,  "as  an  old  friend  you  will  let  me  help  you  — 
in  what  I  can  ?" 

She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him  with  a  half- wonder. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  whispered. 

His  voice  sank  melodiously  low. 

"I  mean  I  think  you  would  not  care,  Miss  Delia,  for  the 
man  who  has  left  us  to  be  massacred  by  the   Campbells  — 
you  would  like  to  think  he  and  his  clan  were  safe." 

Delia  went  white  and  clutched  at  the  edge  of  the  mantel- 
piece; she  stared  with  widened  eyes  at  the  beautiful  face  of  the 
man  opposite. 

"You  know,"  she  said  at  length,  "you  are  very  gallant  with 
my  folly,  Mr.  Caryl." 

"My  sweet  friend,"  he  answered,  "your  folly  is  a  lovely 
thing  —  this  man  is  honored  by  your  consideration  and  I  by 
leave  to  help  you  —  you  have  a  tenderness  toward  the  life 
you  saved;  believe  me  it  does  you  credit." 

A  look  of  relief  crossed  her  face,  she  gave  a  little  gasping 
sigh. 


THE  FOLLY  OF  DELIA  61 

"You  are  generous,"  she  said  falteringly,  "and  I  foolish  — 
and  ashamed  — " 

"I  have  seen  strange  things  in  an  adventurer's  career,  Miss 
Delia, "  he  smiled,  "but  never  any  one  ashamed  with  no  cause. " 

She  stood  abashed,  yet  comforted;  gratitude  that  he  had 
not  guessed  and  fear  that  he  might  struggled  together  at  her 
heart;  she  resolved  on  escape. 

"Good-night,"  she  said,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

His  cool,  firm  palm  touched  her  trembling  hot  fingers;  she 
gave  him  a  wistful  look. 

"Thank  you  —  Jerome,"  she  said,  and  with  a  sweep  of 
skirts  was  gone. 

He  noted  the  way  she  gave  him  his  name  as  a  great  mark  of 
confidence,  and  smiled  quietly. 

"So  she  is  in  love  with  that  Highlander, "  he  said  to  himself, 
"and  thinks  her  heart  broken !" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders;  then  yawned  and  picked  the 
candle  up. 

"Perseus  is  remarkably  obtuse,"  he  reflected.  "Poor  lady !" 
And  he  yawned  again. 


CHAPTER  VI 
HATE  MEETS  HATE 

THE    Earl  of  Breadalbanc  bit  his  pen  and  stared 
thoughtfully  out  of  the  window  at  the  gloomy 
shores  of  Loch  Awe. 
He  sat  in  a  small  chamber  contrived  by  a  modern 
architect  out  of  one  of  the  Gothic  halls  of  the  old  castle;  it 
was  well  furnished  and  contained  the  luxuries  (rare   in   the 
Highlands),  of  a  carpet,  wall-hangings  and  a  sideboard  with 
a  mirror. 

These  things,  however,  were  none  of  them  new;  the  Earl's 
chair  showed  the  horsehair  through  the  broken  leather  and 
the  carpet  in  front  of  his  bureau  was  worn  threadbare;  the 
Earl  was  a  wealthy  man  and  a  proud,  but  above  everything 
prudent;  he  kept  his  French  furniture  for  Edinburgh  and 
used  here  things  that  had  served  when  he  was  merely  Sir 
John  Campbell  of  Glenorchy. 

A  sheet  of  paper  was  before  him ;  clear  save  for  the  heading  : 

"To  Sir  John  Dalrymple,  Master  of  Stair."  The  Earl  was 
very  clear  as  to  what  he  wished  to  write  to  the  Secretary ;  it 
was  merely  to  inform  him  that  there  was  little  likelihood  of 
many  of  the  clans  coming  in  by  the  prescribed  time;  to  advise 
him  that  the  new  regiment  of  his  cousin,  Argyll,  should  be 
armed  and  quartered  in  Glasgow  with  as  little  disturbance 
as  possible. 

But  it  was  not  so  easy  to  couch  this  in  terms  satisfactory 

62 


HATE  MEETS  HATE  63 

to  his  own  cautious  mind;  it  must  be  in  his  own  hand,  his 
name  attached ;  there  must  be  possibility  of  a  perfectly  inno- 
cent construing  of  it  if  ever  it  were  produced. 

Breadalbane  had  often  raised  his  eyebrows  of  late  at  the 
letters  the  Master  of  Stair  put  his  hand  to;  the  utterly  reckless 
letters  of  a  man  too  powerful  to  heed  caution. 

"But  times  change,"  smiled  Breadalbane,  "he'd  no'  be  so 
powerful  if  there  was  a  revolution. "  He  opened  a  drawer  and 
pulled  out  a  packet  of  the  Master  of  Stair's  letters;  written 
mostly  from  Kensington  and  in  a  powerful,  picturesque  style, 
flowing  and  eloquent.  They  set  forth  a  scheme  evidently 
very  passionately  dear  to  the  writer's  heart,  namely,  the  utter 
destruction  of  that  "damnable  den  of  thieves,"  the  High- 
landers. 

Breadalbane  took  up  the  last  and  read  it  over  again; 
it  contained  these  words: 

"Your  troops  will  destroy  entirely  the  country  of  Lochaber, 
Lochiel's  lands,  Keppoch's,  Glengarry's  and  Glencoe's. 
Your  power  shall  be  large  enough.  I  hope  the  soldiers  will  not 
trouble  the  government  with  prisoners. " 

The  Earl  folded  and  put  the  letters  away.  "You  are  very 
confident,  Sir  John,"  he  reflected,  "that  the  clans  will  no' 
be  coming  in." 

It  was  now  the  third  of  December  and  none  had  taken 
the  oaths;  there  seemed  fair  ground  for  the  Master  of  Stair's 
eager  hope  that  none  would;  who  was  to  warn  the  remote 
Highlands  of  the  secret  vengeance  preparing  against  them; 
of  the  soldiers  sent  quietly  in  readiness  for  the  first  day  of  the 
new  year,  of  the  Master  of  Stair,  Secretary  and  Prime  Minis- 
ter for  Scotland,  waiting  for  that  day  with  the  terrible  calm- 
ness of  a  black  resolve  ? 


64  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

The  Highlanders  saw  none  of  this;  only  the  suave  smile 
of  the  loathed  Campbell  who  was  the  government's  instru- 
ment, and  a  demand  for  the  avowal  of  submission  their 
haughtiness  would  not  stoop  to  grant. 

Breadalbane  put  down  his  pen  and  pushed  his  chair  back. 

If  the  chiefs  were  not  warned.     .     .     . 

His  light  eyes  glistened  unpleasantly  —  certainly  he  had 
at  least  the  Macdonalds  in  his  hand. 

He  was  returning  to  his  letter  with  a  smile  on  his  thin  lips 
when  the  door  was  suddenly  opened  and  he  swung  round 
with  his  swift  silent  movement. 

It  was  Campbell  of  Ardkinglass. 

"Weel  ?"  demanded  the  Earl,  and  his  tone  was  haughty: 
his  common  usage. 

Ardkinglass  gave  him  a  strange  glance.  "Macdonald  o' 
Glencoe  is  below,"  he  said  dryly.  "The  chief  and  his  twa  sons 
asking  for  ye. " 

Breadalbane  rose  stiffly : 

"Macdonald  o'  Glencoe  —  under  my  roof?"  he  said 
with  narrowing  eyes. 

Ardkinglass  nodded. 

"They  will  be  wishing  to  take  the  oaths,"  he  answered. 
"They've  come  to  attend  the  conference." 

The  Earl,  always  mindful  of  his  dignity  before  his  hench- 
men, stifled  a  fierce  oath.  "I'm  no'  a  sheriff,"  he  said.  "Let 
them  begone  from  my  roof  —  see  to  it  Ardkinglass  —  tell  them 
I  will na'  treat  with  thieves." 

"They  willna'  gang,"  replied  Campbell  of  Ardkinglass, 
"they've  come,  they  say,  for  their  share  of  the  bonnie  English 
siller." 

The  Earl's  control  broke  at  that;  he  cried  out  passionately: 


HATE  MEETS  HATE  65 

"The  auld  leeing  thief !  He  would  be  asking  me  for  the  siller 
when  he  owes  me  more  for  rent  and  robbery  than  his  share 
twice  ower!" 

"I  think  they  will  be  coming  to  see  ye  in  your  public 
capacity,"  was  the  answer.  "They're  no'  taking  heed  of 
private  feuds." 

Breadalbane  stood  silent;  the  angry  color  fled  from  his  face 
and  it  took  on  lines  of  cunning;  his  eyes  shifted  under  their 
blond  brows;  he  stroked  his  chin  with  his  delicate  hand  and 
coughed  musingly;  then  he  glanced  up  with  a  return  of  his 
perpetual  smile. 

"Weel,"  he  said,  "I'll  come,  Ardkinglass. "  He  turned  and 
carefully  locked  away  his  papers ;  then  preceded  his  kinsman 
down  the  great  gaunt  stairs. 

The  Macdonalds  stood  in  the  center  of  the  vast  dining- 
hall,  the  old  chief  between  his  two  sons;  all  three  erect  with 
their  bonnets  in  their  hands,  all  huge  in  height  and  build. 

The  two  young  men  were  breathing  hard,  flushed  and 
defiant,  their  eyes  roving  quickly  from  door  to  window;  but 
the  elder  Makian's  fine  old  face  showed  a  dignified,  placid 
calm  in  keeping  with  his  venerable  appearance,  a  benevolent 
good-will  showed  in  his  bright  blue  eyes  and  his  lips  were 
curved  to  a  kindly  smile. 

Breadalbane,  entering,  gave  him  a  quick  glance,  then 
stepped  forward,  motioning  to  Ardkinglass  to  stand  back 
against  the  wall.  The  two  young  men  swung  round,  black 
with  mistrust,  but  Makian  spoke  in  bland  Lowland  Scotch: 

"Ye  will  be  wondering,  why  we  make  such  a  tardy  appear- 
ance," he  remarked  gently,  "weel,  it  was  the  weather  —  was 
ower  rough." 

His  manner  utterly  waived  all  thought  of  offense  between 


66  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

them ;  he  spoke  as  if  the  Campbells  and  Macdonalds  had  been 
friends  for  centuries. 

Breadalbane  hitched  his  sword  over  his  hip  so  that  it  lay 
nearer  his  hand.  "Weel,"  he  answered  thoughtfully,  "I'll 
no'  be  denying  that  I  was  expecting  Makian,  though  'tis  ower 
long  since  a  Macdonald  came  to  Kilchurn." 

Makian  waved  his  hand  courteously  as  if  he  dismissed 
even  the  hint  of  an  unpleasant  subject.  "Ye  will  be  guessing 
our  errand  ?"  he  said  suavely. 

There  was  the  sightest  pause;  Breadalbane  measured  the 
three  huge  Highlanders  in  their  dark  tartans  with  their  dirks 
stuck  through  their  belts,  and  the  Highlanders  eyed  the  Earl, 
slender  in  his  Lowland  suit  of  gray  velvet  with  his  left  hand 
gently  pulling  his  sword  backwards  and  forwards. 

He  was  the  first  to  speak: 

"Yea,"  he  said,  "it  will  be  aboot  the  coos  ye  have  come, 
Macdonald." 

Makian's  face  was  a  pleasant  blank. 

"The  coos  ?"  he  repeated  courteously. 

Breadalbane  lifted  his  ash-gray  eyes  with  a  sinister 
flash. 

"The  coos,"  he  answered,  "and  the  bonnie  pasture  lands  — 
they  have  been  keeping  ye,  Macdonald,  this  mony  year,  I 
ken  —  I  willna'  be  mentioning  the  gould  and  siller,  the  plate 
and  furniture  and  sic  details  —  for  I'm  no'  doubting  ye  have 
come  to  return  the  coos." 

"I'm  no'  understanding,"  said  Makian  pleasantly.  "We 
hav'na'  ane  coo  in  Glencoe."  His  two  sons  emphasized  the 
statement  with  a  scowl,  but  the  Earl  was  imperturbable. 

"Weel,"  he  remarked,  "ye  eatamuckleof  meat  in  a  fort- 
night —  it  is  only  that  time  since  ye  took  a  hundred  fat  coos  — 


HATE  MEETS  HATE  67 

but  I  make  no  doubt  that  since  ye  have  eaten  them,  Macdon- 
ald,  ye  have  brought  the  siller  to  pay  for  them. " 

Again  there  was  a  slight  pause;  the  venerable  Makian's 
face  assumed  a  still  more  amiable  expression,  but  he  appeared 
a  little  at  a  loss  for  an  answer;  the  sons  exchanged  fierce 
glances. 

Breadalbane,  still  fondling  his  sword-hilt,  spoke  slowly. 

"The  market  value  of  the  eoos  is  twa  pund  English  apiece." 

At  this  one  of  the  young  Macdonalds  broke  out:  "Ye  play 
the  fule,  Jock  Campbell !  We  hav'na'  come  to  prate  of  coos  — 
but  of  the  oaths  to  King  Wullie. " 

Breadalbane  looked  at  him  calmly. 

"So  you're  thinking  of  taking  the  oaths  ?  Weel,  I'm  no'  a 
sheriff." 

Makian  interposed: 

"We  will  gang  to  the  sheriff,  Jock  Campbell,  but  there  was 
talk  of  siller  for  those  taking  the  oaths  and  I'd  no'  be  adverse 
to  my  ain  share. " 

"Weel  ?"  said  Breadalbane  mildly. 

"We'll  no'  be  asking  a  muckle,"  said  Makian  generously. 
"King  Jamie  couldna'  do  more  for  us  than  fine  words  and  a 
siller  bawbee  apiece  —  gie  us  twa  hundred  of  King  Wullie's 
money  and  we'll  be  taking  the  oaths." 

"I  take  your  meaning,  Macdonald,"  answered  Breadalbane. 
"The  twa  hundred  pund  would  just  pay  for  the  coos  — 
well,  I'll  keep  it  and  then  you'll  be  still  owing  me  the  rent." 

Makian  was  silent,  recognizing  a  master-stroke  of  cunning; 
Ronald  had  little  Lowland  speech  and  could  only  frown  an- 
grily; but  Ian,  his  elder,  made  a  step  toward  Breadalbane: 

"We  owe  ye  neither  money  nor  friendship,  Jock  Campbell," 
he  cried  fiercely,  "we  come  to  ye  because  ye  stand  for  the 


68  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

government  —  we'll  no'  be  considering  what  there  is  between 
us  here  and  noo." 

Breadalbane  lifted  his  head  with  a  little  laugh.  "Keep 
back,"  he  said.  "Dinna  forget  that  I'm  no'  ane  of  your  Hic- 
land  thieves,  but  Campbell  o'  Glenorchy  and  Breadalbane! 
Keep  back,  I  say!  Do  ye  ken  that  in  Edinburgh  the  lifting 
of  my  finger  would  hang  ye  before  the  Tolbooth  ?" 

His  eyes  shone  with  a  steady  contained  hate,  and  fire 
flashed  in  Ian  Macdonald's  gaze  to  meet  it. 

"Na  doot  ye  could  lee  awa'  a  mon's  life  in  Edinburgh, 
Jock  Campbell,"  he  answered,  "but  noo  we  stand  on  our  ain 
ground." 

"Ye  stand  in  Kilchura  Castle!"  cried  the  Earl.  "Dinna 
forget  that.  Macdonald!" 

A  passionate  reply  was  on  lan's  lips,  but  the  old  chief 
interposed : 

"Ay,  we  stand  in  your  ain  castle,  Jock  Campbell,  because 
we  treat  ye  as  the  government's  representative  —  in  your 
public  capacity,  ye  ken.  I'll  no'  be  saying  it's  greatly  to  our 
liking  to  treat  with  a  Campbell,  but  I  will  be  saying  it'll  no'  be 
greatly  to  your  credit  to  be  remembering  ye  are  a  Campbell." 

Breadalbane's  hand  clutched  tightly  round  his  sword- 
hilt;  he  struggled  to  maintain  his  wonted  dignity  of  de- 
meanor. 

"Take  the  oaths  an'  ye  will,  Macdonald,"  he  said.  "But 
dinna  think  ye'll  get  ony  siller  frae  me  —  not  a  bawbee.  Ye 
owe  me  in  money  and  kind  mony  times  your  share  o'  the 
English  siller." 

Makian  drew  himself  up  with  stately  gravity. 

"Ye  are  wrong,"  he  said.  "'Tis  not  in  your  right  to  with- 
hold the  money. " 


HATE  MEETS  HATE  69 

"'Tis  in  my  power,"  flashed  Breadalbane.  Ian  answered 
fiercely : 

"I  fling  your  word  of  thief  back  at  ye,  Jock  Campbell !" 

He  was  striding  forward  when  his  brother  and  father 
caught  him  by  either  arm. 

"We  must  have  no  fighting,"  cried  Ronald  in  Gaelic. 
"There  are  a  hundred  Campbells  here  —  woe  that  we  ever 
came!" 

Breadalbane,  holding  himself  erect,  smiled  coldly  at  them ; 
he  had  himself  well  under  control;  Makian  glancing  at  his 
set  face  felt  it  had  been  a  mistake  to  cross  his  threshold. 

There  was  an  intense  pause;  Ronald  scowled  till  his  blue 
eyes  were  hidden;  the  wily  old  chief  with  one  hand  tightly 
on  lan's  arm  was  considering  a  means  to  conciliate  or  to 
outwit  the  Earl. 

Breadalbane  looked  at  the  silent  Ardkinglass  behind  him, 
then  back  at  the  three  Highlanders  and  his  lids  drooped  till 
his  eyes  were  hidden. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  the  opening  of  the  heavy  door, 
and  the  quick  entry  of  a  woman. 

It  was  the  Countess  Peggy. 

She  wore  a  green  coat  and  there  was  some  heavy  brown 
fur  about  her  neck;  she  carried  her  hat  in  her  hand  and  on 
her  shoulders  and  in  her  red  curls  was  a  faint  powdering  of 
snow. 

At  sight  of  the  three  Highlanders  she  stepped  back  and  the 
color  rushed  into  her  face.  And  Ronald  had  seen  her;  he 
turned  full  to  where  she  stood  and  cried : 

"Helen  Fraser!" 

The  two  Macdonalds  stared  at  him;  but  he,  breathing 
fast  and  flushing,  took  no  heed  of  them;  it  was  as  if  the  mere 


70  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

sight  of  her  had  uplifted  him  from  all  thought  of  aught  beside. 

The  Earl  came,  very  softly,  nearer,  but  he  made  no 
attempt  to  interpose  when  Ronald  strode  up  to  the 
woman. 

"Helen  Fraser!"  he  cried  passionately,  "what  do  ye  under 
a  Campbell's  roof  ?  Ah,  God,  ye  broke  bread  with  me  and  I 
cannot  forget  —  I  forgive  that  ye  turned  on  me,  Helen 
Fraser." 

She  cut  him  short: 

"I  am  Margaret  Campbell,"  she  said,  very  white,  "and 
that  man's  wife."  She  pointed  to  Breadalbane  with  a  smile 
of  unutterable  pride  and  before  the  glitter  of  her  green  eyes 
Ronald  fell  back. 

"But  —  ye  broke  bread  with  me,"  he  stammered  like  a 
stricken  man  —  "and  ye  are  —  Jock  Campbell's  wife!" 
He  glared  round  him  with  bewildered  eyes:  they  were  all 
silent,  held  in  a  tense  hush.  The  Countess  glanced  at  her 
husband,  then  back  to  the  magnificent  figure  of  Macdonald. 

He  stared  at  the  Earl  with  wide  eyes,  stormy  and  in- 
scrutable; he  spoke  very  slowly:  "So  I  have  kissed  Jock 
Campbell's  wife!"  and  he  laughed,  as  if  there  were  tears 
in  his  voice. 

The  thing  was  done;  with  a  sound  like  a  rip  of  silk  the 
Earl's  sword  was  out  and  the  light  ran  down  the  length  of  it 
before  the  eyes  of  the  Macdonalds. 

"Take  the  steel's  welcome  to  Kilchurn !"  he  cried  in  their 
own  language  "Thieves  and  liars !  do  ye  think  Campbell  o' 
Glenorchy  is  to  be  insulted  in  his  own  castle  ?" 

In  a  second  the  Highland  dirks  were  out  and  the  Countess 
had  cried  to  Ardkinglass:  "Call  my  cousin,  Colin  —  in  the 
name  of  God  haste!" 


HATE  MEETS  HATE  71 

He  dashed  from  the  room  and  she  flung  herself  forward, 
with  eager  eyes  on  her  husband. 

He  had  his  back  against  the  wall  and  was  keeping  Makian 
and  his  son  at  bay  with  the  sweep  of  his  long  sword. 

The  sight  drove  the  Countess  wild:  "Two  to  one!"  she 
shrieked,  "ye  foul  cowards !" 

"Hold  the  woman  back !"  cried  Makian;  he  had  no  scruples; 
what  chance  had  they  for  their  lives  if  the  Campbells  came  ? 
and  Breadalbane  was  before  the  door.  Ronald  started  at  his 
father's  voice. 

"Bolt  the  door!"  cried  Ian;  Ronald  obeyed  as  if  he  knew 
not  what  he  did. 

The  Countess  dashed  forward  to  stop  him  and  a  second 
time  Makian  cried: 

"Hold  the  woman,  Ronald !" 

This  time  he  turned  and  caught  her  by  the  arm  and  swung 
her,  not  ungently,  back.  Under  his  uplifted  arm  that  held 
her  she  saw  the  crossing  swords  of  her  husband  and  Makian, 
and  Ian  standing  grimly  by;  she  saw  Breadalbane  hopelessly 
overmatched  and  her  eyes  flashed  to  the  bolted  door. 

"Let  me  go,"  she  said  in  a  quick  whisper,  staring  up  into 
his  grave  troubled  face.  "Oh  —  take  your  hands  away!" 

But  he  held  her  as  firmly  against  the  castle  wall  as 
he  had  done  against  the  mud  hut;  again  her  green  eyes 
glanced  in  agony  at  her  husband  and  she  writhed  in 
Ronald's  grip : 

"They'll  kill  him,"  she  said  hoarsely. 

"And  you  love  him  ?"  said  Macdonald  in  Gaelic. 

For  answer  she,  realizing  him  in  a  blaze  of  fury,  struck  him 
full  across  the  face  with  her  free  hand ;  he  flushed  scarlet  but 
never  relaxed  his  hold  of  her. 


72  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

There  was  the  sound  of  steps  without  and  a  thundering 
on  the  door. 

"Jock!"  cried  the  Countess,  "Jock!" 

Breadalbane  had  been  forced  back  into  the  window-seat; 
the  huge  figure  of  Ian  almost  hid  him  from  her  view;  Ronald 
looked  over  his  shoulder  at  them. 

"Jock  Campbell  is  doomed,"  he  said  gravely.  "Answer  me 

—  do  you  want  him  saved  ?" 

Even  in  that  moment  she  was  arrested  by  the  serious 
passion  of  his  face. 

"Tell  me,"  he  insisted. 

"What  do  you  think !"  she  cried  fiercely. 

"Yes  or  no  ?"  said  Ronald. 

With  a  wrench  the  answer  came  from  her:  "God  in  Heaven 

—  yes!" 

Instantly  he  loosed  her  and  swung  round  on  the  fighting 
men;  not  too  soon;  the  Earl  had  slipped  by  the  wall  and  Ian 
was  over  him,  forcing  the  sword  from  his  grip;  but  Ronald 
caught  him  by  the  shoulder  and  dragged  him  back  with  a 
force  that  shot  the  dagger  from  his  hand. 

"Get  up!"  he  shouted  to  Breadalbane;  and  the  Earl,  dizzy 
from  the  fear  of  death,  staggered  to  his  feet. 

The  hall  was  full  of  Campbells,  the  Countess  had  dashed 
to  shoot  back  the  bolt  and  Ardkinglass  had  rushed  in  with 
a  dozen  of  his  kin  at  his  heels. 

Makian,  breathing  hard,  glanced  round  and  saw  the  day 
lost  for  him;  he  had  not  gathered  his  son's  action;  but  Ian 
turned  on  his  brother  with  bitter  curses. 

"Are  ye  mad  or  traitor,  Ronald,  that  ye  give  us  to  the  hands 
of  our  enemies  ?" 

The  Earl  pushed  past  him  into  the  center  of  the  room  and 


HATE  MEETS  HATE  73 

stood  between  the  three  Macdonalds,  sullenly  at  bay,  and  the 
silent  Campbells,  waiting  the  signal  for  slaughter. 

"Fool !  fool !  to  come  to  Kilchurn  Castle  I"  said  Makian,  then 
fell  into  silence. 

"Will  ye  have  us  hang  them  as  thieves  ?"  asked  Ard- 
kinglass,  "or  shall  we  cut  them  down  noo  ?" 

Breadalbane  pushed  the  blond  hair  back  from  his  eyes, 
and  glanced  round  his  tacksmen.  In  the  little  pause  that 
followed,  Ian  broke  into  a  furious  taunt:  "Are  ye  turning 
tender,  Jock  Campbell  ?  Dinna  fear  the  odds  —  a  Macdonald 
is  worth  sax  Campbells!" 

Down  from  the  door  came  the  Countess  Peggy  into  the 
midst  of  the  men;  the  brown  fur  on  her  bosom  was  unclasped 
and  showed  the  tumbled  lace  of  her  tie;  her  red  hair  had 
fallen  into  twists  of  fine  curls  onto  her  shoulders;  she  was 
flushed  and  most  beautiful. 

"Kill  them,  Jock,"  she  said. 

She  held  out  her  hands,  red-marked,  round  the  wrist  from 
Ronald's  grip.  "Kill  them,  Jock,"  she  said  again,  and  her 
gaze  went  straight  and  defiant  to  Ronald  Macdonald. 

Breadalbane  did  not  answer  her;  he  spoke  to  Makian. 

"Your  son  gave  me  my  life,  Macdonald,  and  you're  three 
against  a  hundred.  I  hav'na'  need  to  crush  ye  by  these  means 
and  I'll  no'  be  under  a  debt  to  a  Macdonald.  Take  your  lives 
and  gang." 

The  Countess  made  a  fierce  little  sound  under  her  breath: 
"Ah,  no,  Jock  —  kill  them  —  while  ye  have  the  chance !" 

"He  saved  my  life,"  the  Earl  answered  briefly,  then  to  the 
Macdonalds,  "leave  Kilchurn,  and  remember  I'm  no'  under 
a  debt  to  ye." 

They  came  slowly  forward,  showing  little  of  their  surprise 


74  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

in  their  faces;  Ronald's  blue  eyes  were  devouringly  on  the 
Countess;  she  drew  herself  up  as  he  passed  and  her  hand 
clutched  into  her  furs. 

"I  wouldna'  have  let  ye  go,"  she  cried  bitterly,  but  Breadal- 
bane  turned  on  her: 

"Woman,  will  ye  no'  remember,  I'm  master  in  my  ain 
castle  ?" 

She  shrank  into  herself,  submissive  under  the  rebuke;  but 
a  hate  not  to  be  controlled  flashed  from  her  eyes. 

"See  them  out  of  the  castle,  Ardkinglass,"  commanded 
the  Earl,  "see  they  gang  at  once.  I'm  no  wishing  to  be  robbed 
under  my  ain  eyes." 

Makian,  afraid  for  his  life,  swallowed  the  insult  and 
without  a  backward  look  or  any  salutation  to  the  Earl,  went 
heavily  from  the  hall,  his  sons  at  his  heels. 

Ardkinglass  and  the  Campbells  followed. 

Now  they  were  alone,  the  Countess  Peggy  turned  pas- 
sionately to  her  husband. 

"Ah,  I  thought  I  had  died !  ah,  my  ain  love,  Jock  —  why 
didna'  ye  kill  them  ?"  She  caught  up  his  hand  and  put  her 
cheek  to  it  with  a  little  caressing  movement. 

He  frowned  at  her  absently  and  put  his  free  hand  to  his 
sword-hilt. 

"Jock,  Jock,"  she  cried,  "ye  had  your  chance  —  all  the 
hate  of  these  hundred  years  might  hae  been  satisfied  —  ye 
shouldna'  hae  let  them  gang  sae  easily  —  that  —  Ronald  — 
too,"  her  eyes  flashed  as  she  said  it,  "escapes  more  lightly 
than  if  he'd  kissed  a  Hieland  wench  against  her  will  —  is  it 
for  naething  I  am  Campbell  o'  Glenorchy's  wife  ?  Ah,  Jock, 
when  ye  drew  your  sword  I  thought  ye  had  killed  him  for  me 
—  not  let  him  live  to  —  boast  —  " 


HATE  MEETS  HATE  75 

Breadalbane  turned  impatiently. 

"Ye  dinna  understand,"  he  said,  "he  saved  my  life  for 
one  thing. " 

"Not  for  love  o'  ye,"  she  interrupted  fiercely,  "but  to  win 
a  smile  frae  me  —  an  insult  and  a  disgrace  —  if  ye  had 
killed  him  none  had  kenned  he  spared  your  life  to  please  your 
wife!" 

The  Earl  flushed  a  little  at  her  tone,  but  he  was  lapsing 
into  his  usual  calm  manner. 

"Woman,  ye  dinna  ken  the  larger  issues,"  he  said  dryly. 
"If  I  had  slain  these  Macdonalds  how  think  ye  it  would  hae 
sounded  in  Edinburgh  ?  Sir  John  wouldna'  hae  thanked 
me  for  it;  it  would  hae  pleased  nane  but  the  Jacobites  that 
hae  been  glad  for  this  handle  against  me." 

She  moved  a  step  away  from  him. 

"Ah,  ye  hae  grown  too  politic,"  she  answered.  "When  I 
wed  ye,  ye  wouldna'  hae  done  sae  —  Campbell  o'  Glenorchy 
would  hae  fought  for  me  nor  been  dared  sae  tamely  by  these 
thieving  Macdonalds!" 

Breadalbane  looked  at  her  calmly.  "I  willna'  put  myself 
outside  the  law  when  I  may  be  avenged  inside  the  law,"  he 
said.  "In  a  while  not  three,  but  all  o'  the  Macdonalds  shall 
be  in  my  power  and  without  scandal  can  I  use  it  —  dinna 
ye  understand  ?" 

"But  they  will  take  the  oaths,"  she  answered. 

"Not  after  this  —  they  willna',"  said  the  Earl,  grimly 

But  the  Countess  Peggy  was  not  appeased;  she  looked 
with  a  frown  at  the  fading  marks  on  her  wrist  and  rebellion 
against  her  lord  rose  within  her. 

"I'm  no'  convinced,"  she  said,  half  under  her  breath. 

Breadalbane  gave  her  a  cold  glance. 


76  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Let  a  man  judge  o'  a  man's  affairs,"  he  said  curtly, 
"I'm  no'  needing  your  advice  on  matters  o'  policy." 

He  turned  to  leave  the  room,  but  the  Countess  swung 
round  and  caught  his  coat. 

"Nay,  Jock,"  she  cried,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "dinna  leave 
me  in  anger  —  forgive  me  —  'tis  only  that  I  couldna'  bear 
to  think  they  should  live  to  —  to  laugh  at  ye. " 

"I'm  no' angry  with  ye,  Peggy,"  smiled  the  Earl,  "and  for 
the  Macdonalds  —  dinna  fear;  they  willna'  lang  be  troubling 
us." 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  POISON  OF  THE  KISS 

THE  three  Macdonalds  trudged  in  silence  over  the 
flat  moors  beyond  Loch  Awe.  Behind  them  lay 
Kilchurn  Castle,  black  against  the  vapors  of  Ben 
Cruachan,  the  mist-soaked  standard  of  England 
hanging  red  and  gold  above  it. 

The  heavy  gray  sky  seemed  to  hang  low  enough  to  be 
touched  with  an  uplifted  arm ;  there  was  no  wind ;  a  few  flakes 
of  snow  fell  slowly.  Makian  walked  a  little  ahead  of  his  two 
sons,  and  reflected  on  the  absolute  failure  of  his  attempt  to 
wring  money  from  Jock  Campbell :  it  had  been  a  bold  attempt 
and  there  was  little  wonder  that  it  had  not  succeeded.  Whether 
they  took  the  oaths  or  no,  Makian  was  very  sure  that  they 
would  not  get  a  guinea  of  the  English  money;  it  was  a  bitter 
wrong,  he  thought,  that  the  government  should  have  chosen 
for  its  agent  a  man  with  whom  so  many  clans  were  at  feud. 
He  meant  to  take  the  oaths :  the  letters  Ronald  had  delivered 
had  frightened  him  as  well  as  others ;  he  was  shrewd  and  wily ; 
the  tribes  favorable  to  King  William;  the  Erasers,  the  Mac- 
naughtens  and  Grants  had  warned  him  that  submission 
would  be  the  wiser  part. 

He  knew  he  would  have  his  sons  against  him,  their  hate  of 
the  Campbells  overweighed  every  consideration  of  prudence 
he  could  bring  forward.  He  decided  he  would  wait:  there  was 
time  yet.  Let  some  of  the  others  come  in  first,  let  Keppoch  of 

77 


78  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

Glenroy,  Glengarry  or  Lochiel  lend  their  pride  before  he 
lowered  his. 

Ian  and  Ronald  followed  him  in  silence;  though  Makian 
had  condoned  his  son's  saving  of  Breadalbane  as  a  piece  of 
prudence  that  had  preserved  their  lives,  Ian  felt  bitter  about 
it  and  turned  a  sullen  face  on  his  father. 

Ronald  took  no  heed  of  any;  his  blue  eyes  were  gazing 
blankly  ahead;  he  walked  in  an  absorbed  gravity  with  his 
mouth  set  sternly. 

They  had  crossed  the  moor  and  were  entering  a  ravine  be- 
tween the  hills,  when  Makian  stopped,  and  looking  back, 
motioned  ahead. 

A  man  on  horseback  with  a  following  or,  foot  was  coming 
toward  them. 

They  were  near  enough  for  the  Macdonalds  to  distinguish 
the  tartan  of  the  Camerons,  and  the  three  lifted  their  bonnets 
as  they  drew  close.  The  horseman  raised  his  hat.  He  was  a 
magnificent  figure,  bearing  the  dress  and  manners  of  a  Low- 
lander,  though  about  him  was  a  Cameron  plaid,  and  he  spoke 
in  pure  Gaelic. 

"Well  met,  Macdonald  of  Glencoe,"  he  said,  with  a  pleasant 
smile.  "You  come  from  Kilchurn  ?" 

"Yes, "  frowned  Makian.  "And  you,  Ewen  Cameron  ?" 

The  other  laughed.  "I  go  there,"  he  answered.  "A  tacksman 
of  yours  brought  me  a  letter  from  King  James  —  I  must  thank 
ye  for  the  warning  it  contained,"  he  added.  "I  go  now  to  twist 
what  money  I  can  wring  out  of  my  slippery  cousin,  Breadal- 
bane." 

"Will  ye  take  the  oaths?"  demanded  Ian  Macdonald. 

Sir  Ewen  Cameron  of  Lochiel  laughed  again,  and 
patted  the  neck  of  his  black  horse.  "It  were  the  wiser  thing 


THE  POISON  OF  THE  KISS  79 

for  ye  to  do,"  he  said.  "Will  you  not  profit  by  your  own 


warning  ?" 


Ronald  broke  in : 

"Nay,  we  will  take  no  oaths  to  a  Campbell." 

Lochiel's  sharp  eyes  traveled  keenly  over  the  three  faces; 
his  own  fell  to  gravity. 

"Why,  you  would  play  the  fool,"  he  said.  "These  letters  are 
from  Caryl,  an  accredited  agent  of  King  James,  and  His 
Majesty  gives  us  leave  to  take  the  oath  to  the  Dutchman  — 
and  to  break  it." 

Ronald's  face  grew  harder. 

"It  is  no  question  of  the  kings  —  I'd  see  either  of  them 
hanged  for  a  gold  piece  —  it's  a  question  of  Jock  Campbell 
of  Breadalbane, "  he  said  sullenly. 

Lochiel,  bred  in  cities  and  used  to  courts,  smiled  at  the 
young  Highlander's  unreasoning  venom.  "Ye  have  stubborn 
stuff  there,"  he  said  to  Makian.  "But  let  me  warn  ye  —  take 
the  oaths  before  it  be  too  late." 

Macdonald  was  flattered  by  the  friendliness  of  so  great  a 
man,  but  was  too  proud  to  show  it;  and  sore  from  his  recent 
encounter  with  Breadalbane,  spoke  with  an  assurance  he  was 
far  from  feeling. 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  he  said  loftily.  "I  will  consider  about 
taking  the  oaths  —  and  ye,  Ewen  Cameron,  will  ye  be  the 
first  to  come  in  ?" 

Lochiel  drew  himself  up  haughtily  and  his  dark  cheek 
flushed. 

"Nay,  'tis  a  point  of  honor  with  me  —  I  will  not  be  the 
first,"  he  answered.  "But  my  tacksmen  are  free  to  do  as  they 
choose,  and  my  tacksmen  understand  me.  Farewell." 

He  touched  his  horse  up  and  the  Camerons  moved  on. 


80  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

As  Lochiel,  haughty  and  splendid,  passed  the  Macdonalds, 
he  turned  a  little  in  the  saddle  and  smiled  in  the  winning  way 
that  had  won  King  Charles's  heart. 

"I  will  not  be  the  first,  Macdonald  o'  Glencoe,  for  my 
honor's  sake,"  he  said.  "But  I  would  not  be  the  last,  for  my 
head's  sake  —  look  to  the  warning." 

His  gloved  hand  touched  his  black  horse,  and  the  Camerons 
passed  on  over  the  wet  moor  toward  Kilchurn. 

Ronald  scowled  after  him;  Ian  cursed  impatiently,  but 
Makian  resolved  that  his  prudence  would  do  well  to  take  the 
hint  his  pride  had  received  ungraciously. 

Before  Lochiel  wras  out  of  sight  they  were  on  their  way 
again. 

The  snow  began  to  fall  faster;  it  was  late  afternoon  and  the 
light  fading  to  a  heavy  grayness ;  against  the  hard  color  of  the 
sky  the  flakes  showed  a  dazzling  white,  and  in  the  hollows  of 
the  rocks  they  began  to  lie  in  tiny  drifts.  Beside  a  narrow  cave 
that  looked  full  on  the  ravine,  the  Macdonalds  halted. 

In  the  shelter  of  an  overhanging  rock,  Ian  kindled  with  some 
difficulty  a  fire;  and  Makian  produced  provisions  from  his 
wallet,  and  laid  them  in  silence  before  his  sons. 

Ronald  sat  over  the  thin  smoky  flames,  morose  and  sullen ; 
he  pushed  away  the  food  offered  with  the  back  of  his  hand, 
and  sat  staring  over  the  blank  landscape,  while  the  others  ate. 
But  he  was  not  left  long  alone.  Presently  Ian,  warmed  with  his 
food  and  forgetting  his  grievance,  came  and  flung  himself  be- 
side him.  Ronald  eyed  him  coldly,  then  turned  his  head  away. 
He  was  desperately  out  of  humor  and  had  no  care  about  the 
hiding  of  it. 

Ian,  in  every  respect  the  same  to  look  on,  save  that  he  was 
darker,  rougher  in  make  and  fiercer  in  manner,  was  yet  of  a 


THE  POISON  OF  THE  KISS  81 

nature  more  simple,  more  easily  pleased  if  as  easily  angered; 
secretly,  he  greatly  admired  his  younger  brother.  He  glanced 
over  his  shoulder  at  Makian,  sitting  placid  in  the  mouth  of 
the  cave  with  blank  blue  eyes  considering  mischief,  and  spoke 
in  a  whisper  to  Ronald. 

"Did  ye  mark  Lochiel's  coat  ?"  he  said  eagerly.  "With  the 
gold  braid  on  it  —  and  his  satin  vest  and  gloves  like  the  King  ? 
Lochiel's  a  great  man. " 

Ronald  gave  no  answer. 

"And  his  sword, "  continued  Ian.  "An  Andrea  Ferrara  with 
a  basket  hilt  — ' 

"I  did  not  mark  it,"  answered  Ronald  without  looking 
round,  but  Ian  was  not  to  be  repulsed. 

"Macdonald  o'  Keppoch  has  a  red  coat  like  that  —  of  the 
fine  cloth  with  gilt  buttons  —  I  saw  it  when  I  was  in  Glenroy 
—  Keppoch  got  it  when  he  sacked  Inverary  and  he  carries  it 
about  with  him,  valuing  it  greatly."  His  eyes  shone  with  a 
fierce  envy.  "I  would  have  a  coat  like  that,  and  boots  with 
buckles  and  fringes." 

"Lochiel  bought  those  clothes  in  King  Charlie's  time  — 
they're  years  old,"  returned  Ronald  scornfully. 

But  Ian  cast  a  wistful  glance  at  his  weather-stained  plaid. 
"Glengarry  has  an  Andrea  Ferrara,"  he  said,  with  eager  blue 
eyes  on  his  brother. 

"Let  him  keep  it,"  returned  Ronald  shortly.  "I  am  content 
with  my  bow  and  my  dirk. " 

"You  are  in  an  ill  mood,"  said  Ian.  "I  remember  when  ye 
could  not  sleep  for  longings  such  as  these  —  and  when  ye 
found  nothing  o'  wearing  apparel  in  Jock  Campbell's  burning 
house  ye  raged  extremely. " 

Ronald  turned  fiercely. 


82  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Do  not  talk  to  me  o'  Jock  Campbell!"  he  cried. 

"Ye  did  not  maybe  mark  how  he  was  decked  in  satin  and 
velvet  like  a  woman,"  Ian  interrupted. 

"I  had  him  under  my  sword  —  I  had  my  hand  on  his 
wizened  throat  —  when  you,  you  fool,  pulled  me  away.  'Tis 
you  who,  for  shame,  should  not  talk  o'  Jock  Campbell !" 

Ronald  flushed  and  his  eyes  darkened. 

"Why  —  'for  shame'  ?"  he  questioned  hotly. 

Ian  flung  up  his  head  with  a  laugh. 

"Because  the  woman  cozened  ye  —  it  was  not  for  any 
motives  of  prudence,  but  to  please  the  woman  that  ye  saved 
his  life." 

There  was  a  little  pause;  peering  through  the  gathering 
dusk  Ian  marked  his  brother's  face  grow  white,  and  he  laughed 
again,  good-naturedly  enough. 

"Will  ye  deny  it  ?"  he  asked.  "And  little  thanks  ye  got  — 
'I  would  kill  ye,'  she  said,  and  showed  her  teeth  like  a  cat." 

Ronald  stared  at  him  as  if  he  had  not  heard.  "Is  it  not  an 
awful  thing, "  he  said  very  low,  "that  she  should  be  Jock  Camp- 
bell's wife?" 

"Do  ye  care  ?"  asked  Ian  incredulously.  "  'Tis  an  ordinary 
woman  —  and  I  like  not  green  eyes;  also  she  is  false  to  her 
finger-tips  —  like  a  Campbell. " 

"Ah,  yes,"  cried  Ronald  wildly,  "she  is  false  and  doubly 
false.  She  has  the  trick  of  smiling  when  she  lies  —  there  is  a 
poison  in  her  breath  that  doth  infect  her  kisses  with  a  deadly 
sweetness,  and  in  her  eyes  a  witchcraft  lurks  to  drive  the  blood 
too  fast  for  bearing  —  I  would  that  she  or  I  were  dead !" 

A  low  wind  was  abroad;  it  blew  the  ice-cold  snowflakes 
hissing  into  the  lazy  fire,  and  shook  the  tassels  of  the  firs 
against  the  darkening  trail  of  clouds, 


THE  POISON  OF  THE  KISS  83 

Ian  drew  himself  up  in  silence;  Makian  was  asleep  behind 
them,  close  wrapped  in  his  plaid.  It  was  too  dark  to  see  more 
than  the  outline  of  his  figure. 

The  vast  forms  of  the  distant  mountains  were  fast  absorbed 
into  the  general  grayness;  it  grew  colder  and  a  great  sense  of 
awe  came  with  the  dark  as  if  an  unseen  presence  whispered : 
"Hush!" 

"I  would  be  fighting,"  said  Ronald  suddenly  through  the 
dusk,  "I  would  be  in  the  press  and  sweep  of  arms,  the  lift  and 
music  of  the  battle-cries  —  or  I  would  lie  dead  and  careless  of 
the  eagles  that  pluck  at  my  heart  —  smiling  perhaps  —  not 
heedful  of  the  pain  that  stabs  there  now!" 

"But  ye  have  had  your  fill  o'  fighting, "  said  Ian,  shuddering 
under  the  sting  of  the  wind.  "At  Killicrankie  —  when  Dundee 
died.  I  have  need  to  repine,  who  stayed  guarding  Glencoe 
while  ye  fought. " 

Ronald's  voice  came  in  answer,  melodiously. 

"It  was  most  glorious.  My  God !  I  would  give  ten  years  of 
peace  for  such  another  fight  —  but  what  mattered  the  victory  ? 
Dundee  was  slain. "  His  voice  fell  to  gloom.  "I  loved  Dundee, 
though  he  was  a  Lowlander  —  this  Saxon  Caryl  that  I've  told 
ye  of :  he  had  a  face  like  his,  a  girl's  face,  always  calm.  I  would 
have  died  for  Dundee.  He  was  a  great  gentleman,  full  of 
courtliness. " 

He  rested  his  head  on  his  hand  and  gazed  sadly  at  the  slow 
moving  clouds. 

"The  day  before  the  battle,"  he  went  on,  "he  called  us  to  his 
tent :  Keppoch,  Glengarry,  Lochiel  and  us  —  he  was  writing  a 
letter  to  the  Duke  o'  Gordon  when  we  came  in.  '  How  do  ye 
spell  the  name  o'  yonder  castle  ?'  he  asked;  Lochiel  told  him. 
*  That's  Castle  Blair,'  and  he  laughed  and  said  he  had  little 


84  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

learning.  He  told  us  his  plans  as  he  sealed  his  letter,  and  how 
we  were  to  meet  Mackay's  men:  he  was  very  confident.  'I 
was  not  born  to  be  forgotten,'  he  said  smiling. 

"There  was  a  spy-glass  on  his  table,  a  wonderful  thing;  as 
we  left  I  asked  leave  to  look  at  it  and  he  showed  me  how  it 
worked,  most  patient  and  most  courteously. 

"With  the  first  daylight  we  were  in  our  ranks;  the  mist  hung 
over  the  pass  like  the  standard  o'  the  Highlands;  we  could  see 
no  further  than  each  other,  but  we  could  hear  the  rattle  o'  the 
Lowland  guns  as  they  dragged  them  up  the  pass.  They  fired, 
and  hideous  was  the  sound  of  it.  I  saw  a  Cameron  drop,  close 
to  Lochiel,  and  Glengarry  wince  from  his  place.  We  were  new 
to  the  muskets,  but  we  did  what  we  might;  the  mist  rose,  but 
up  the  glen  the  cannon  smoke  rolled  thick  and  white,  we  could 
not  see.  Once  I  looked  up  and  saw  the  sky  overhead  was  clear 
and  blue;  it  seemed  a  strange  thing  and  turned  me  giddy.  The 
sun  began  to  glitter  down  our  muskets.  Dundee  came  up  at 
the  head  of  his  Lowland  horse ;  he  spoke  to  Lochiel  and  I  saw 
him  strain  forward  and  look  down  the  pass;  then  he  gave  the 
word.  We  threw  down  our  plaids  and  Lochiel  tossed  his  shoes 
aside;  we  gave  the  war-cry  in  a  great  shout.  Up  from  the 
smoking  glen  came  a  shaking  cheer  in  answer,  and  Lochiel 
laughed  up  at  Dundee.  '  The  thing  is  done,  my  lord.  Do  men 
who  are  going  to  win  shout  so  ?' 

' '  Charge ! '  cried  Dundee ;  there  was  a  great  flush  on  his  face. 

"We  flung  aside  the  muskets  and  were  out  with  the  dirks. 
I  would  have  charged  into  the  cannon's  mouth  for  I  felt  im- 
mortal, but  as  I  rushed  I  fell  and  the  flying  feet  of  the  Mac- 
donalds  bruised  me  to  the  earth.  I  could  not  rise.  I  saw  Dundee 
motion  to  his  men,  but  they  hesitated  —  the  Lowland  cowards 
hesitated. 


THE  POISON  OF  THE  KISS  85 

"Dundee  rose  in  the  saddle;  he  lifted  his  hat  and  the  sun 
glittered,  very  brightly,  on  his  hair;  from  where  I  lay  I  shouted 
at  the  cowards  behind  him,  then  a  cloud  of  smoke  hid  him.  I 
struggled  to  my  feet;  the  air  was  full  of  confusion  and  cries  of 
victory;  the  Lowlanders  were  running  like  sheep.  I  saw  the 
gunners  struggling  in  the  press,  the  standard  o'  Lochiel  flying 
through  the  smoke,  and,  midst  it  all,  Dundee's  black  horse 
dash  riderless  down  the  glen !" 

Ronald  stopped  abruptly,  with  a  shudder  of  excitement  at 
the  remembrance  of  that  day.  Ian,  thrilled  to  forgetfulness  of 
the  cold  and  the  dead  fire,  waited  with  eyes  eager  through  the 
dark. 

"One  came  up  to  me,"  continued  Ronald,  "and  asked 
me  for  my  plaid.  'Dundee  is  dying,'  he  said;  I  followed 
to'  where  he  lay.  Dunfermline  held  him  off  the  ground ; 
they  took  my  plaid  and  laid  it  under  him  to  keep  him  off  the 
heather. 

"  '  How  goes  the  day  ?'  he  asked  faintly. 

"Dunfermline  answered,  very  white :  'Well,  for  King  James, 
but  I  am  sorry  for  ye,  Jock.' 

"  '  If  'tis  well  for  the  King,  'tis  the  less  matter  for  me,'  said 
Dundee,  but  there  was  an  awful  look  in  his  eyes  and  I  think 
he  thought  of  his  wife  and  the  boy  he  had  never  seen.  He  did 
not  speak  again ;  I  think  he  would  not ;  he  turned  his  face  away 
and  died  as  the  victory  shout  rose  up  the  glen. 

"Dunfermline  covered  him  with  my  plaid.  'The  war  is  over, 
he  said  in  a  broken  voice.  'Dundee  is  dead.' 

"I  helped  to  carry  him  to  his  grave,  and  I  took  his  spy -glass 
from  his  sash;  'twas  broken  with  his  fall,  but  I  kept  it  for 
rememberance.  I  loved  Dundee.  Would  I  lay  with  him  in  his 
nameless  grave  in  Blair  Athol !" 


86  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

His  voice  sank  miserably  into  silence,  and  there  was  no 
sound. 

The  clouds  drifted  apart  over  a  snowy  moon;  there  was  a 
sense  of  utter  desolation  abroad,  the  cold  peace  of  loneliness. 

Ronald  rose  and  walked  away  from  his  brother  toward  the 
moonlight  with  the  wind  cool  on  his  face;  he  shook  with  a 
stormy  agony  and  cried  out  low  and  passionately : 

"Would  I  had  died  with  Dundee  before  I  had  been  poisoned 
with  love  o'  thee,  Margaret  Campbell!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 
MAcCALLUM  MORE 

THE  Countess  Peggy  sat  in  the  drawing-room  of  her 
lord's  handsome  house  in  Edinburgh  and  meas- 
ured out  tea  with  a  heavy  rat-tailed  spoon. 
It  was  a  fine  chamber  with  smooth  polished  cream- 
colored  walls  and  long  French  windows,  hung  with  flowered 
curtains  of  a  dull  pink;  the  furniture,  black  and  a  little  heavy, 
caught  in  its  clear-cut  Jacobean  facets  the  light  from  the  dozen 
candles  in  a  silver  stand  that  burnt  over  the  tea-table.  The 
Countess  wore  a  purple  gown  with  paniers  and  a  fine  lace 
kerchief  fastened  with  diamonds  on  her  bosom;  a  screen  of 
drawn  red  silk  stood  between  her  and  the  fire  and  cast  a  glow 
over  her  face  and  neck,  lay  reflected,  too,  in  the  hollow  of  the 
shining  white  and  pink  cups. 

There  was  a  fragrant  smell  of  tea  and  the  gentle  hiss  of 
boiling  water  from  the  silver  kettle;  it  was  a  comfortable  room, 
a  comfortable  hour;  the  Countess's  green  eyes  were  soft  with 
content  like  a  soothed  petted  cat's  before  a  fire. 

Her  one  companion  lay  back  lazily  on  a  low  settee  and 
gazed,  rather  vacantly,  into  the  fire;  he  was  a  slight  man  with 
a  fretful  weak  face,  pale  eyes  too  full,  and  a  thin  irresolute 
mouth. 

He  was  handsomely  dressed,  and  for  all  his  unprepossessing 
appearance,  carried  an  air  of  high  lineage,  wealth,  position 
and  power. 

87 


88  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

The  Countess  finished  mixing  the  tea,  then  glanced  at  the 
man  opposite;  there  was  impatience  and  a  slow  amused  scorn 
in  her  eyes;  she  spoke  and  it  was  in  the  tone  of  one  who  speaks 
down  to  his  hearer. 

"Cousin,"  she  said,  "I  am  glad  to  be  out  of  the  Hielands  — 
Kilchurn  is  ower  damp  and  cold  this  weather. " 

She  handed  him  his  tea  and  he  put  out  a  feeble  white  hand 
to  take  it. 

"Ye  should  pull  it  down,"  he  said  half -peevishly.  "I  canna 
ken  how  ye  can  live  there  —  I'd  as  soon  step  in  my  grave  as 
live  in  Inverary  in  the  winter." 

His  accent  was  very  slight;  he  had  the  speech  of  a  man  who 
had  lived  abroad  and  learned  many  tongues. 

The  Countess  Peggy  smiled. 

"Ye  are  the  first  Argyll,  cousin,"  she  said,  "who  has  dis- 
liked Inverary  Castle,  and  as  for  pulling  down  Kilchurn,  we're 
no'  intending  it.  Jock  is  ower  busy  building  up  what  the  Mac- 
donalds  destroy. " 

Argyll  drew  closer  to  the  fire,  balancing  his  tea-cup  with  the 
anxiety  of  a  man  to  whom  a  slop  in  the  saucer  would  be  a 
disaster. 

"I'm  weary  of  the  name  of  Macdonald,  cousin,"  he  said.  "  I 
marvel  Breadalbane  hath  let  them  gain  such  an  upper  hand ; 
they  should  be  hanged  and  done  with. " 

"My  lord  —  that  consummation  approaches,"  she  ans- 
wered, hardening,  through  her  smile,  at  his  implied  slight  to 
her  husband.  "  'Tis  no'  the  lack  o'  power  but  policy  has  held 
Jock's  hand." 

The  Earl  of  Argyll  lifted  his  eyes  fretfully. 

"Policy!  Always  this  talk  of  policy!  If  it  had  na  been 
for  my  father's  'policy'  in  joining  Monmouth  in  '85, 


MAcCALLUM  MORE  89 

he  would  na  have  lost  his  head  or  the  Campbells  the 
Hielands.  ..." 

She  interrupted. 

"But  the  triumph  o'  your  return,  cousin,  made  full  amends 
for  your  father's  downfall. " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  sipping  his  tea;  he  had  the 
manner  of  a  man  with  a  grievance. 

"Certainly  I  return  to  the  Hielands,  but  what  do  I  find  ?" 
he  complained.  "The  Macdonalds  overrunning  everything, 
Campbells  hanged  at  sight,  my  houses  gone  to  ruin  —  long 
arrears  of  rent  due  and  the  Stewarts  o'  Appin,  the  Camerons, 
the  Macnaughtens,  and  these  cursed  Macdonalds  refusing 
to  pay  a  farthing." 

The  Countess  Peggy  gave  him  a  bright  glance.  "We  have 
our  chance  noo,"  she  said.  "Our  chance,  Cousin  Archibald, 
for  our  revenge."  She  offered  him  as  she  spoke  a  little  glass 
dish  of  macaroons,  and  he  carefully  selected  one  not  too  sugar- 
ed before  he  answered. 

"We?"  he  questioned.  "You  and  Breadalbane  have  little 
to  complain  of  —  I  dinna  call  to  mind  any  misfortune  in 
your  branch." 

There  was  a  note  of  bitterness  in  his  voice;  he  could  not 
forget  that  while  he  had  been  living  in  a  Dutch  garret  his 
cousin  Breadalbane  had  managed  to  keep  even  with  every 
government  and  come  out  at  the  end  with  unimpaired  estates 
and  a  title  as  good  as  his  own. 

The  Countess  understood  this  and  smiled. 

"Dinna  forget  that  we  are  Campbells,  too,"  she  said. 
"And  we  hae  had  many  wrongs  frae  the  Hielands."  She 
tilted  the  tea-urn  with  half -shut  eyes  —  "Particularly  the  Mac- 
donalds," she  added. 


90  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

Argyll  looked  at  her  a  second. 

"Does  Breadalbane  think  they  willna' come  in?"  he  asked. 

"Cousin,  he  is  sure  of  it  —  vera  few  will. " 

"Ah!"  Argyll  gave  a  luxurious  little  sigh  of  satisfaction. 
"I  thought  so  —  I  had  orders  to  quarter  my  regiment  at 
Dunblane  —  and  quietly. " 

"Orders  frae  the  Master  of  Stair  ?" 

"Yes." 

"He  is  at  Kensington  noo  ?"  asked  the  Countess. 

"Yes  —  he  and  Carstairs  rule  Scotland  between  them  — 
the  King  gives  no  ear  to  any  other. " 

"And  he,  the  Master  —  is  ane  with  Jock !"  she  said  eagerly. 
"And  there  are  only  twa  weeks  more  —  cousin  —  I  think 
the  thing  is  done." 

Some  animation  came  into  Argyll's  languid  eyes. 

"Almost,  I  think  so,"  he  said.  "Breadalbane  goes  to  Lon- 
don soon  ?" 

"He  comes  up  frae  Kilchurn  to-morrow,"  she  answered, 
"and  will  be  ready  to  accompany  ye  to  Court. "  Their  eyes  met. 

"He  will  see  the  King  ?"  asked  Argyll. 

"And  the  Master  of  Stair,"  she  answered.  "And  'twill  be 
done.  We  shall  come  back  to  the  Hielands  in  the  new  year. 
The  plans  are  laid." 

A  little  half-foolish  smile  crept  round  Argyll's  weak  mouth. 
( 'Twill  gratify  me  vastly  to  see  those  Hielanders  swept  out, " 
he  said. 

"Twill  be  a  blow  to  the  hopes  of  King  James  ye  ken," 
remarked  the  Countess. 

Argyll  looked  up  quickly:  "Ye  think  so?"  he  asked.  He 
always  showed  a  great  respect  for  his  cousin's  opinion, 
consulted  her  and  deferred  to  her  in  a  way  her  husband 


MACCALLUM  MORE  91 

never  did,  and  she  despised  him  in  proportion.  "Ye  think 
there  is  no  hope  for  King  James  ?"  he  asked  again,  half- 
anxiously. 

She  looked  full  at  him  and  laughed.  "Cousin,  cousin," 
she  cried.  "Dinna  gang  ower  far  with  the  Jacks  because  I 
dinna  imagine  that  there  is  much  hope  for  King  James." 

He  stared  at  her,  went  red  and  white,  and  his  tea -cup 
danced  in  his  hand. 

"Madam !"  he  gasped. 

Her  look  of  amusement  deepened. 

"I  ken  vera  weel,"  she  said,  "that  ye  are  tampering  with 
King  James's  agents  —  weel,  cousin,  we  all  do  the  same.  A 
wise  man  will  be  keeping  square  with  both  sides. " 

Argyll,   looking  agitated   and  foolish,   began  to  protest. 

"Cousin,  I  assure  ye  that  I  have  na  engaged  in  any  trea- 
sonable plots  —  " 

She  cut  him  short. 

"Ye  need  no'  be  so  cautious  with  me,  Cousin  Archibald. " 

He  looked  at  her,  half -reassured,  but  the  memory  of  his 
grandfather's  and  his  father's  fate  was  strong  within  him. 
He  spoke  peevishly. 

"Dinna  talk  so  freely  o'  these  dangerous  subjects  —  I 
hav'na'  a  wish  to  be  traveling  to  Holland  again." 

"Leave  plotting  alone  then,"  she  answered  with  flashing 
eyes;  her  lord,  she  thought,  not  this  poltroon,  should  have 
been  MacCallum  More. 

"I  hav'na'  been  plotting,"  retorted  the  Earl  angrily.  "I 
was  approached  by  an  agent  of  James  —  Jerome  Caryl  — 
he  had  some  great  names  —  some  great  names  —  he  spoke. 
.  .  ."  His  voice  sank  —  "Of  a  rising  in  the  spring  —  the 
French  have  offered  troops  and  Berwick  is  coming  over." 


92  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"And  you  ?" 

" Weel,  I  hedged  —  I  spoke  him  fair,  but  I  said  nothing 
dangerous  —  mark  ye,  nothing  dangerous." 

His  eyes  wandered  round  the  room  furtively;  he  was 
eager  to  change  the  subject,  a  little  afraid  of  this  sharp  wife 
of  his  cousin's. 

"We're  safe  with  either  government,"  she  said  calmly. 
"I've  heard  of  this  rising  —  Jock  will  of  course  wait.  There 
is  nae  hurry." 

"No,"  assented  Argyll,  eager  to  reassure  himself  of  the 
safety  of  his  position.  "And  I  dinna  doubt  that  everybody 
has  a  finger  in  the  plot.  They  say  ye  can  count  on  one  hand 
the  men  at  Kensington  who  hav'na'  regular  letters  from  St. 
Germains. " 

"And  who  are  those  few,  cousin  ?" 

"Weel  —  they  say  Carstairs,  Shrewsbury  and  the  Master 
of  Stair  —  but  I'm  thinking  that's  merely  because  they  are 
more  cunning  than  most." 

The  Countess  laughed.  At  the  same  moment  there  was  a 
tap  on  the  door  and  as  she  looked  up  a  servant  entered. 

"Captain  Campbell  of    Glenlyon  to  see  your  ladyship." 

"He  is  frae  Kilchurn  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

"Bid  him  come  in,"  she  said,  and  as  the  door  closed  again 
she  looked  at  her  cousin. 

"What  has  happened  that  Jock  sends  to  me  ?" 

Argyll  trifled  with  his  teaspoon  in  silence  and  looked  at 
her  with  a  lazy  half-sneer,  for  she  had  risen  with  a  changed 
face,  and  that  any  one  should  be  troubled  lest  anything  should 
happen  to  Breadalbane  was  to  his  cousin  a  most  amusing 
thing. 


MxcCALLUM  MORE  93 

Captain  Campbell  of  Glenlyon  entered  and  stood  a  moment 
abashed  by  the  light,  glowing  room,  the  elegant  lady  all 
purple  and  gold ;  his  master  usually  employed  him  on  rougher 
work  than  carrying  messages  to  his  wife. 

"My  lord  is  weel  ?"  asked  the  Countess  swiftly. 

" Vera  weel,  my  lady, "  answered  Glenlyon  awkwardly. 

The  sneer  on  Argyll's  face  deepened. 

"Will  ye  be  closing  the  door  after  ye  ?"  he  asked  sourly. 
"I'm  in  a  fearful  draught." 

With  nervous  salutations,  Glenlyon  obeyed ;  he  was  a  red- 
haired,  florid  man,  obviously  ill  at  ease  in  the  presence  of 
Argyll  and  the  Countess.  There  was  a  little  pause :  the  Earl, 
fretful  at  having  his  tea  disturbed,  pointedly  ignored  Glen- 
lyon, who,  after  delivering  his  letter,  stood  uncomfortably  by 
the  door. 

Erect  and  slender  in  the  center  of  the  room  stood  the  Coun- 
tess, the  soft  light  glittering  on  the  stiff  folds  of  her  silk  gown. 
She  broke  the  seal  of  the  letter  and  with  eager  eyes  glanced  over 
it,  her  fair  face  anxious  and  absorbed.  She  had  her  back  to 
Argyll,  and  he  marked  with  a  slow  cold  admiration  the  curve 
of  her  neck  rising  from  the  webs  and  blossoms  of  her  d'Alen- 
9on  lace  kerchief  and  the  long,  fine,  gleaming  gold  curls  that 
fell  over  her  shoulders ;  drooping  against  the  soft  turn  of  her 
cheek  hung  the  brilliant  in  her  ear :  it  winked  with  a  thousand 
colors  in  the  candle-light  and  trembled  a  little  with  the  quick 
moving  of  her  breath. 

There  was  a  silence  in  the  cream-colored  room.  Glenlyon 
began  to  note  the  things  about  him  with  furtive  red  eyes,  and 
cautiously  shifted  his  feet  from  the  edge  of  the  pink  carpet 
onto  the  polished  boards. 

Suddenly,  the  Countess  looked  up  and  turned  to  Argyll. 


94  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Cousin,"  she  cried,  "the  clans  are  coming  in !" 

The  paper  shook  in  her  hand  and  her  eyes  flashed  under 
lifted  brows. 

"Lochiel's  tacksmen  are  taking  the  oaths  by  the  hundreds, 
the  Macphersons  and  the  Frasers,  the  Munros  and  the 
Macleods  are  come  in  —  "  Her  voice  was  sharp  and  angry. 
"'Tis  most  sudden  —  most  unexpected !"  she  cried. 

Argyll  sat  up  in  his  chair,  roused  from  his  sneer.  "And  the 
Macdonalds  o'  Glencoe  ?"  he  asked. 

"They  hav'na'  come  in  yet,"  she  answered.  "Nor  yet 
Clanronald  or  Keppoch  —  but  it  looks  ill  that  these  should 
submit  —  Jock  seems  disturbed." 

Argyll  put  down  his  tea-cup  and  rose.  "They  have  been 
warned,"  he  said. 

Their  eyes  met. 

"By  whom  ?"  asked  the  Countess. 

Argyll  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "By  some  agent  of  King 
James." 

"But  how  could  any  know?" 

"Tis  their  business,"  answered  Argyll,  "to  discover  these 
matters  —  of  a  certainty  these  men  have  been  warned." 

The  Countess  turned  to  Glenlyon. 

"Captain  Campbell,  know  ye  more  than  is  writ  here  ?" 

"No,  my  lady,  my  lord  will  be  with  ye  to-morrow,  and  I've 
no'  any  knowledge.  My  lord  didna'  gie  me  aught  but  the 
message. " 

"Ye  may  gang,  sir,"  she  answered.  "Thank  ye  for  your 
service. " 

Glenlyon  bowed  himself  from  the  room,  and  the  Countess 
turned  again  to  her  letter. 

"This  will  be  a  blow  to  the  Master  of  Stair,"  said  Argyll 


MAcCALLUM  MORE  95 

"But  it  is  no'  all  the  clans  hae  come  in,"  she  answered 
quickly. 

Argyll  smiled. 

"But  the  Master  of  Stair  was  reckoning  on  all,  cousin." 
He  drew  a  letter  from  his  pocket  and  unfolded  it.  "See,  the 
last  he  wrote  me." 

He  pointed  to  a  sentence  and  read  it  aloud. 

!<  'As  I  wrote  to  you  formerly,  if  the  rest  are  willing  to  con- 
cur, to  pull  down  Glencoe's  nest  this  winter,  as  the  crows  do 
—  thus  destroying  him  and  his  clan,  'twill  be  as  fully  accept- 
able as  if  he  had  come  in.  This  answers  all  ends  and  sat- 
isfies those  who  complain  of  the  King's  too  great  gentleness. ' 
Ye  see,"  commented  Argyll,  "he  is  very  bitter  —  he  would 
like  to  sweep  the  Hielands  wi'  fire  and  sword.  He  wrote  to  me 
that  if  none  came  in  —  he  hoped  six  thousand  might 
be  slain." 

"But  they  hae  come  in!"  cried  the  Countess  impatiently. 
"Still  —  if  the  Macdonalds  dinna  —  if  we  can  be  freed  o' 
that  nest  o'  murdering  thieves,  'twill  be  somewhat  —  Keppoch 
too,  and  the  ither  chiefs  may  stand  out. " 

Argyll  put  his  letter  back  in  his  pocket. 

"They  must  not  take  the  oaths,"  he  said  peevishly.  "If 
they  do  it  must  be  suppressed  —  surely  with  the  aid  o'  the 
Master  o'  Stair  we  can  do  that  ?" 

"I  dinna  believe  they  will  take  them,"  answered  the  Coun- 
tess. "They  hate  us  too  much  and  they  think  themselves  ower 
safe  in  Glencoe." 

"'Tis  a  fearfu'  place  to  enter,"  said  her  cousin. 

"But  no'  impossible  ye  ken  —  ye  see  —  they  could  send  the 
soldiers  from  Fort  William  —  and  I  one  side  and  Breadal- 
bane  the  other  —  they  would  be  in  a  trap. " 


96  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

He  looked  thoughtfully  into  the  fire  and  fondled  the  arm 
of  his  chair  with  restless  thin  fingers. 

"There  is  ane  person  we  have  no'  considered,"  he  re- 
marked, "the  King." 

"William  o'  Orange  ?"  she  questioned. 

"Yes  —  ye  ken  he  is  no'  a  puppet  King  and  has  a  fearfu' 
habit  o'  looking  into  his  affairs  himself  —  I'm  no  sure  of 
his  gude-will  to  our  scheme." 

She  lifted  her  delicate  shoulders  scornfully. 

"The  Master  o'  Stair  will  manage  him  —  he  is  deep  in  his 
confidence. " 

"Weel."  Argyll  looked  at  her  doubtfully,  "I  have  written 
to  the  Master  o'  Stair  that  I  dinna  do  anything  without  the 
King's  name  as  authority.  I  will  na  put  my  neck  in  jeopardy. " 

"The  King's  name!"  She  lifted  her  head  with  a  superb 
contempt.  "Who  is  king  in  the  Hielands  ?  Ye  are  MacCallum 
More  —  will  ye  defer  to  a  foreigner  who  canna  speak  your 
tongue  —  who  hasna'  seen  your  country  ?  By  Heaven,  I  think 
the  Campbells  can  rule  in  the  Hielands  without  a  Dutch- 
man's warrant!" 

"Breadalbane  is  no'  o'  that  mind,"  sneered  Argyll.  "He 
took  the  oaths  fast  enow. " 

"But  he  dinna  consult  William  o'  Orange  every  time  he 
wishes  to  hang  a  Macdonald,"  retorted  the  Countess. 

But  Argyll  was  obstinate. 

"I  willna' put  my  neck  in  jeopardy,"  he  repeated.  "Show 
me  the  King's  name  and  I'm  content  —  but  I'll  no'  move 
without  it." 

The  Countess  Peggy's  thin  lips  compressed  scornfully. 
"Vera  weel,"  she  said.  "The  Master  o'  Stair  will  get  the  King's 
authority,  cousin." 


MAcCALLUM   MORE  97 

"You're  ower  fond  o'  quoting  the  Master  o'  Stair,"  said 
Argyll  sourly;  the  news  of  the  clans  coming  in  had  frightened 
his  irresolute  mind;  he  was  ready  to  wash  his  hands  of  the 
whole  affair. 

"The  Master  o'  Stair!"  repeated  the  Countess.  "Cousin, 
he  is  the  most  powerfu'  man  in  the  Lowlands,  ye  ken,  and 
great  in  London  —  he  is  o'  our  views  —  cousin,  I  do  weel 
to  quote  the  Master  o'  Stair!" 


CHAPTER  IX 
ON  THE  ROAD  TO  LONDON 

IT  was  drawing  toward  the  evening  of  December  twentieth, 
along  the  smooth  high  road  to  Carlisle  three  travelers 
were  riding  swiftly,  their  faces  toward  England.    The 
wind  blew  cold   and   keen;  the  trees   bordering  the 
roadside  began  to  show  dark  and  misshapen  in  the  twilight; 
the  walls  of  Carlisle  ahead  of  them  were  a  welcome  sight. 

Delia  Featherstonehaugh,  riding  between  her  brother  and 
Jerome  Caryl,  shuddering  drew  her  hood  closer  round  her 
face,  and  whipped  her  horse  up  to  keep  pace  with  her  com- 
panions. 

Through  the  dusk  came  Jerome  Caryl's  low  musical  voice ; 
he  was  telling  her  the  reason  of  this  hasty  departure  for 
London ;  she  had  been  loth  to  leave  Scotland  though,  with  the 
submission  of  the  greater  number  of  the  Highland  chiefs 
their  work  in  the  North  had  been  accomplished. 

"My  Lord  Berwick,"  Jerome  was  saying,  "is  come  to  Eng- 
land and  lives  now  in  a  smuggler's  hut  on  Romney  Marsh  — 
we  have  to  see  him  about  the  rising  in  the  spring.  Then 
I  have  to  sound  the  ministers  and  nobles  and  get  what  names 
I  can  to  a  letter  promising  help  to  King  James  —  for  you  see, 
Miss  Delia,  the  French  do  not  desire  to  send  aid  if  none  will 
join  them  —  then  I  have  to  meet  an  agent  of  His  Majesty's 
—  who  comes  with  news  from  France  —  one,  Andrew  Wed- 
derburn. " 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  LONDON  99 

Delia  made  no  answer,  but  her  brother  spoke. 

"Who  is  that  fellow,  Jerome  ?  We  are  getting  too  many  into 
this  plot." 

"I  have  letters  from  my  Lord  Middleton  assuring  me  of  his 
perfect  loyalty,"  answered  Jerome.  "He  hath  risked  his  life 
before  on  the  King's  service. " 

"A  Scot?"  asked  Sir  Perseus. 

"Yes  —  by  the  name,"  smiled  Jerome.  " 'Tis  not  he  that 
troubles  me,  but  this  getting  of  signatures.  Men  are  wary  of 
signing  papers,  and  lip  promises  are  of  no  service. " 

They  rode  in  silence  a  while;  it  began  to  snow  ano^  the 
light  rapidly  faded. 

"  'Tis  a  severe  winter,"  said  Delia.  "I  would  we  were 
in  Carlisle." 

She  looked  wistfully  ahead,  toward  the  city  lost  now  in 
the  gathering  dusk. 

Jerome  Caryl,  following  out  his  thoughts,  spoke  again. 

"I  have  Hamilton  and  Athol  —  I  nearly  had  Argyll  —  but 
he  is  too  fearful  —  Breadalbane  is  too  cunning  to  commit 
himself  —  of  course  there  are  Montgomery  and  Crauford  — 
and  in  England  I  am  sure  of  Marlborough,  Cornbury,  Roch- 
ester and  Godolphin  —  but  I  need  others  —  there  are  the 
common  names  whose  weight  is  little  —  whose  honor  is 
cheapened  with  much  false  swearing." 

Delia  responded  to  the  disdain  in  his  even  voice : 

"That  there  should  be  so  many  traitors!"  she  cried  impul- 
sively. "Sometimes  I  loathe  them  all." 

From  the  dark  figure  at  her  side  came  her  brother's 
practical  voice. 

"If  you  could  get  Devonshire,  Halifax  and  Dorset,  Jerome," 
he  said,  "it  were  enough.  Shrewsbury,  too  .  .  . " 


100  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Ah!"  said  Jerome  softly.  "Be  careful  —  even  on  the 
open  road." 

Again  they  pressed  on  in  silence;  the  snow  fell  thickly, 
their  hands  were  numb  upon  the  bridles,  and  Delia  felt  her 
limbs  ache  with  col  . 

"We  shall  not  reach  Carlisle  to-night,"  said  Jerome  sud- 
denly. "You  see  those  lights  ahead,  Perseus  ?  'tis  an  inn  —  I 
remember  it ;  a  rough  place,  but  we  will  stop  there. " 

Though  Caryl  was  the  younger,  Perseus  never  questioned 
his  right  to  command;  his  cold  smiling  way  carried  an 
authority  not  easy  to  dispute.  In  a  few  moments  more  they 
had  drawn  up  at  the  inn,  a  low  two-storeyed  house;  before 
it  a  heavy  sign  outlined  now  in  snow,  on  it  in  straggling  letters 
the  legend: 

"The  Borderers." 

A  flickering  lamp  over  the  door  gave  a  gusty  light.  As 
Jerome  dismounted  he  saw  a  huge  coach  drawn  up  against  the 
side  of  the  house. 

"Ye  have  guests?"  he  demanded  of  the  ostler  who  came 
forward. 

The  man  nodded.  "A  lord  and  his  family." 

Jerome  hesitated,  but  to  turn  away  now  would 
look  suspicious,  and  the  night  was  impossible.  He  helped 
Delia  down  from  the  saddle  and  the  three  entered  the  low 
door. 

A  silent,  depressed  looking,  slatternly  woman  showed  them 
into  a  large  room  that  was  at  once  both  kitchen  and  parlor. 
It  was  lit  only  by  a  huge  fire  that  roared  up  the  vast  chimney ; 
the  floor  was  tiled  in  red,  the  walls,  plaster;  heavy  red  curtains 
before  the  windows  shut  out  the  night;  kitchen  utensils,  mostly 
of  brown  earthenware,  hung  against  the  walls  and  were  placed 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  LONDON  101 

about  the  hearth;  a  three-legged  cauldron  was  in  the  fire  and 
a  heavy  smell  of  cooking  onions  rose  from  it. 

By  the  low  dark  table  stood  a  lady,  who  looked  up  sharply 
at  the  new-coiners. 

She  was  a  great  contrast  to  her  surroundings;  her  fur-lined 
coat  lay  on  a  chair  beside  her,  but  she  still  wore  her  large  beaver 
hat,  and  in  one  hand  she  held  a  black  muff;  her  gray  velvet 
dress  was  open  at  the  bosom  on  a  full  white  bodice;  her  atti- 
tude was  elegant  and  indolent,  she  rested  against  the  table 
with  her  feet  crossed  daintily. 

Perseus  and  his  sister  advanced  at  once  to  the  fire,  showing 
no  heed  of  her,  but  Jerome  Caryl  remained  in  the  doorway, 
loosening  his  cloak;  as  it  slipped  back  from  his  shoulders  to 
the  ground,  he  removed  his  hat  and  the  dim  red  light  fell  full 
upon  his  face  and  disordered  hair. 

The  lady  looked  at  him  with  a  frank  and  slightly  insolent 
admiration ;  her  green  eyes  traveled  consideringly  over  his  tall 
figure,  evidently  noting  his  plain  attire  and  the  graceful  way 
he  wore  it;  she  gave  a  quick  glance  at  the  two  ordinary  people 
by  the  fire,  then  stared  again  at  the  beautiful  face  of  Jerome 
Caryl. 

He  gave  her  one  look,  grave  and  calm,  from  his  melancholy 
hazel  eyes,  then  ignored  her  obvious  scrutiny. 

"Perseus,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  must  find  the  woman 
to  know  what  accommodation  she  hath  —  will  you 
come  ?" 

They  went  from  the  room  in  silence,  leaving  Delia  by  the 
fire.  She  glanced  with  a  timid  friendliness  at  the  stranger  and 
chafed  her  numb  hands  together. 

The  lady  looked  at  her,  and  to  Delia  the  clear-cut  white  face 
with  the  green  eyes  and  red  lips  was  as  sinister  as  it  was  lovely; 


102  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

the  cold  expression  prevented  her  from  making  any  attempt 
to  speak;  but  the  other  broke  the  silence. 

"Was  that  gentleman  your  husband,  madam  ?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"Oh,  neither  of  them,"  smiled  Delia. 

"Your  brother  then  ?"  asked  the  lady. 

"One,"  answered  Delia.  "My  brother  and  his  friend,  merely, 
madam.  He  in  the  red  coat  is  my  brother." 

The  other  smiled. 

"I  hav'na'  seen  before  sic  a  fair  face  on  a  man  as  your  friend 
carries,"  she  said.  "Who  are  ye,  mistress  ?  I  am  Margaret 
Campbell  o'  Breadalbane." 

Delia  caught  her  breath ;  the  position  had  become  suddenly 
a  perilous  one,  she  reflected  swiftly  that  her  name  was  un- 
known, and  gave  it  as  frankly  as  she  was  able. 

"Ah,"  said  the  Countess,  "and  your  lovely  friend  ?" 

Delia  collected  herself  with  an  effort. 

"Your  ladyship  must  ask  him  yourself,"  she  answered.  "I 
cannot  rob  him  of  that  honor. " 

The  Countess  lifted  her  brows  and  accepted  the  rebuff. 

"We  no'  intended  to  stay  here,"  she  remarked  with  an  easy 
change  of  subject.  "But  the  storm  coming  on  and  my  lord 
havin'  a  weak  chest  that  I  should  na  wish  him  to  catch  cold 
on  —  we  stopped  at  the  first  inn  we  came  to. " 

So  Breadalbane  was  with  her!  Delia's  heart  sank;  she 
wished  she  could  warn  Jerome  and  her  brother,  but  she  was 
too  confused  to  invent  a  decent  excuse  for  leaving  the  room, 
and  as  she  stood  trying  to  collect  herself  to  some  definite  plan  of 
action  the  Countess  crossed  over  to  the  fire  and  took  off  her  hat. 

"Canna  we  remove  that  vile  brewis  ?"  she  said.  "The  smell 
will  make  my  lord  sick." 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  LONDON  103 

Delia  gave  a  thin  hysterical  laugh. 

"  'Tis  all  there  is  in  the  house  belike,"  she  answered. 

But  the  Countess  Peggy's  keen  eyes  had  marked  other  food 
about  the  room,  bacon,  flour,  fruit  and  fowls. 

"Help  me,  mistress,"  she  commanded,  and  laying  delicate, 
resolute  hands  upon  a  cloth,  she  lifted  off  the  pot  and  stood  it 
on  the  hearth. 

"Ah,"  she  said  with  a  disgusted  face.  "The  place  reeks." 

Her  hair  had  fallen  over  her  face;  she  flung  it  back  and 
Delia  noticed  dully  how  it  curled  round  her  temples  in  little 
red  ringlets,  then  suddenly  it  seemed  as  if  her  blood  stood 
still;  the  shock  of  discovery  held  her  silent. 

This  was  the  woman  Macdonald  had  spoken  of;  she  knew 
it  certainly  and  her  fingers  curled  into  her  palm  with  hate. 
This  woman  —  Lady  Breadalbane !  With  angry  eyes  she 
watched  the  Countess,  who  all  unconscious  was  moving  about 
the  room  among  the  pots  and  pans;  there  could  not  be  two 
women  with  such  eyes  and  hair  and  lips,  and  it  was  a  most 
likely  thing  that  it  should  have  been  Breadalbane's  wife  riding 
by  Glenorchy.  The  discovery  nerved  her;  an  angry  desire  to 
test  this  woman,  to  prove  herself  right,  took  hold  of  her;  her 
fine  face  flushed  and  she  lifted  her  head. 

"Madam,  your  lord  carries  good  news  to  London,"  she  said 
on  an  impulse.  "I  heard  all  the  clans  had  submitted." 

The  Countess  turned  with  a  slight  smile. 

"It  is  no'  the  truth,"  she  said,  "all  hav'na'." 

"Ah  ?"  said  Delia  with  her  heart  beating  fast.  "And  who 
are  the  unhappy  rebels  ?" 

There  was  a  little  pause  before  Lady  Breadalbane  answered : 

"The  Macdonalds  o'  Glencoe  for  one.  They  have  na'  taken 
the  oaths." 


104  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

Delia  saw  the  red  and  shadowy  room  spin  round  her  and 
felt  the  blood  hammering  in  her  temples;  before  she  left  Glas- 
gow she  had  been  assured  that  the  Macdonalds  had  come  in 
with  the  other  clans;  she  had  never  questioned  it;  it  was  such 
an  unlikely  thing  they,  of  all,  should  remain  obstinate;  she 
moistened  her  lips  and  tried  to  frame  some  reply;  she  was 
saved  by  Jerome  Caryl  opening  the  door. 

"I  have  engaged  another  chamber,  Miss  Delia,"  he  said. 
"We  need  not  intrude  on  you,  my  lady." 

He  inclined  his  head  toward  the  Countess. 

Delia  felt  a  throb  of  relief  to  hear  he  had  discovered  the 
guest's  quality,  and  hastened  toward  him. 

"Hae  ye  seen  my  lord  ?"  asked  the  Countess  calmly. 

"Yes,  madam,  he  hath  the  only  habitable  room  up-stairs," 
answered  Jerome,  "but  he  hath  most  generously  surrendered 
it  to  Miss  Delia." 

The  Countess  smiled. 

"We  are  well  enough  here,"  she  said.  "And  ye  may  keep 
that  untidy  female  awa'  —  I  wait  on  my  lord  myself.  We  shall 
gang  as  soon  as  it  is  light. " 

With  a  few  murmured  words  Delia  followed  Jerome  into 
the  opposite  room,  a  dirty  dingy  place  where  Sir  Perseus  sat 
over  a  rough  supper.  She  joined  him  in  a  white  agitation  and 
glanced  from  one  man  to  another. 

"Delia  — what  is  the  matter?"  asked  Sir  Perseus.  "This 
encounter  will  do  us  no  harm. " 

She  was  silent,  one  hand  over  her  bosom ;  with  the  other  she 
pushed  her  plate  aside;  she  was  quite  white. 

"I  know,"  she  said  faintly,  "But  I  cannot  eat  —  I  will  go  to 
bed." 

"That  is  folly,"  answered  Sir  Perseus  curtly.  Then  he  turned 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  LONDON  105 

to  Jerome  and  added  in  a  lowered  voice:  "Did  you  speak  to 
the  Earl?" 

"Why  not?"  asked  Jerome  calmly.  "I  asked  him  for  the 
room  and  he  gave  it  me  —  cold  and  stiff  but  courteous.  His 
wife  is  beautiful  —  is  she  not  ?" 

They  commenced  their  supper,  but  Delia  sat  miserably 
silent,  with  absent  eyes.  "The  Macdonalds  have  not  taken  the 
oath,"  beat  in  her  head.  "The  Macdonalds  have  not  taken  the 
oath!" 

The  hostess  in  clumsy  hurry  left  the  door  ajar  behind  her, 
enough  for  them  to  see  across  the  passage  where  in  the  door- 
way of  the  opposite  room  stood  the  Countess  with  her  sleeves 
rolled  up  over  her  white  elbows,  and  flour  on  her  hands,  her 
face  was  turned  to  the  stairway,  upon  it  a  lovely  smile. 

Jerome  fixed  on  her  his  mournful  eyes,  then,  as  he  watched, 
Breadalbane  crossed  the  passage  and  entered  the  room.  The 
Countess  closed  the  door. 

"I  saw  a  woman  like  that  once  —  in  a  dream,"  said  Jerome. 
"The  face  was  strangely  impressed  on  my  mind. " 

Sir  Perseus,  eating  lustily,  asked : 

"What  was  she  doing  in  your  dream  ?" 

Jerome  gave  his  grieving  smile.  "She  was  strangling  me 
with  a  long  lace  tie,"  he  said  slowly. 

Sir  Perseus  laughed,  but  Delia  broke  out  passionately :  "A 
cold  Scotswoman !  I  loathe  her  —  she  would  strangle  you  if 
it  needed  —  her  eyes  are  hard  as  stones. " 

"Delia!"  cried  Sir  Perseus.  "The  place  is  overrun  with 
Campbells  —  have  a  care  —  they  have  a  whole  body-guard  of 
Highlanders  at  the  back  — " 

"And  yet  she  does  servants'  work,"  said  Delia. 

"She  is  devoted  to  him,"  answered  Jerome. 


106  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"A  strange  thing!"  flashed  Delia. 

"Nay  — give  her  credit  for  her  greatest  virtue,"  he  replied. 
"She  would  do  anything  for  Breadalbane.  I  think  he  is  very 
fortunate. " 

Delia  bit  her  lip  and  dropped  her  eyes  under  Jerome's  calm 
gaze;  she  was  nervous,  excited,  almost  beyond  bearing;  she 
rose  up  impatiently. 

"Mr.  Caryl  —  you  told  me  the  Macdonalds  had  taken  the 
oath, "  she  said  with  burning  cheeks.  "And  she  —  this  woman 
—  told  me  they  had  not  —  and  she  should  know. " 

Jerome  turned  in  his  chair  to  look  on  her. 

"Why  —  'tis  not  January  yet,"  he  said  gently.  "There  is 
time  —  I  have  assurance  from  Lochiel  that  all  the  clans  will 
take  the  oaths." 

Sir  Perseus  put  in  curtly. 

"And  what  matter  for  the  Macdonalds  if  the  others  come 
in  ?  They  had  their  warning.  .  .  . " 

Delia  moved  round  the  room  restlessly  with  her  head  lifted, 
her  eyes  fixed  absently. 

"Believe  me,"  said  Jerome  softly,  "we  can  do  no  more  than 
we  have. " 

"No,  no,"  she  answered  hastily,  "  'tis  only  it  surprised  me 
—  they  leave  it  late. " 

Jerome  caught  a  questioning  look  on  Sir  Perseus's  face  and 
delicately  changed  the  subject. 

"I  hope  Wedderburn  will  not  keep  me  waiting, "  he  said  in 
a  low  voice.  "He  was  to  cross  from  France  and  arrive  at  Rom- 
ney  on  the  twentieth  —  meet  me  in  London  at  'The  Sleeping 
Queen'  on  Christmas  Eve  —  where  we  shall  stay  —  I  told 
you  —  'tis  ostensibly  an  inn,  but  they  have  a  secret  press 
there." 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  LONDON  107 

"Ah  —  with  Brcadalbane  in  the  next  room  —  hush!"  said 
Perseus  anxiously. 

"Breadalbane  himself  will  be  one  of  us  before  we  have 
finished,"  smiled  Jerome.  "And  besides  I  have  faith  in  the 
walls  —  as  I  was  saying,  I  can  hardly  proceed  without  these 
instructions  from  France,  and  I  hope  the  storms  will  not  delay 
Wedderburn." 

As  he  spoke  they  heard  the  wind  whistle  and  struggle  at  the 
ill-fitting  windows  and  the  snow  falling  down  the  chimney  hiss 
into  the  fire. 

"Dangerous  weather  for  the  packet  to  cross,"  whispered 
Delia. 

"It^has  done  it  in  worse,"  said  Jerome.  "And  there  is  less 
fear  of  detection  —  government  spies  are  not  likely  to  be  on 
Romney  Marsh  this  time  of  the  year. " 

Sir  Perseus  laughed. 

"What  fools  the  Dutchman  is  served  with !"  he  said.  "Think 
of  the  times  that  packet  has  run  to  and  fro  —  think  of  the 
messages  sent  —  the  cargoes  of  Jacobites  shipped  —  and  no 
one  has  ever  suspected  — " 

"Our  agent,  Hunt  the  smuggler,  is  trustworthy  —  and  well- 
paid,"  answered  Jerome.  "And  his  hut  is  desolate  enough." 

Delia  suddenly  stopped  by  the  table  and  caught  up  her 
untasted  wine. 

"God  give  us  luck  once  more!"  she  said  impulsively.  "To 
the  safety  of  King  James's  messenger !" 

"Heaven  preserve  him,"  cried  Sir  Perseus,  drinking. 

His  sister  gave  him  a  bright  defiant  glance. 

"Hun  and  the  Macdonalds  o'  Glencoe!"  she  said  a  little 
wildly.  "God  preserve!" 

"Amen  I"  said  Jerome  Caryl. 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  KING'S  MESSENGER 

IT  was  snowing  fast  over  Romney  Marsh;  the  whole 
wide,  desolate  fenland  sweeping  to  the  sea  lay  gray 
under  the  storm;  it  was  near  nightfall  and  almost  dark; 
in  the  landscape  one  light  burning  brightly  through  the 
snowflakes;  to  judge  by  its  steadiness  it  came  from  a  window, 
by  its  size  it  was  far-off. 

There  was  the  steady  sound  of  the  thud  of  the  distant 
waves,  now  and  then  broken  by  the  thin  cry  of  the  curlew  or 
the  hungry  shriek  of  the  sea-gull. 

In  the  broken  marsh-ground  grew  a  group  of  withered  trees; 
the  foremost  bent  and  blasted  by  lightning  and  against  this 
one  leaned  a  man  wrapped  in  a  long  cloak. 

He  was  looking  toward  the  sea  in  an  attitude,  alert  but 
easy;  he  appeared  to  be  affected  neither  by  his  isolated  posi- 
tion, the  gloomy  scene  or  the  bitter  storm;  now  and  then  he 
turned  toward  the  distant  light  as  if  to  assure  himself  it  was 
still  there,  or  moved  to  shake  the  snow  off  his  shoulders  and 
hat. 

As  it  grew  darker  the  snow  began  to  cease  over  the  sea,  and 
the  heavy  sky  broke  into  a  patch  of  gloomy  red  and  crimson ; 
it  was  possible  now  to  discern  the  dreary  line  of  shore  and 
sand  and  the  dim  form  of  the  dark  waves. 

The  man  gazed  round  him,  then  made  slowly  toward  the 
sea.  The  sodden  earth  and  wide  logs  impeded  him;  he  trod 

108 


THE  KING'S  MESSENGER  109 

cautiously,  but  for  all  his  ease  sank  now  and  then  to  his  ankles 
in  mud  or  half-fell  over  the  broken  stones  and  boulders. 

Slowly  he  made  painful  progress  to  the  edge  of  the  fen 
where  it  dipped  in  a  sudden  slope  of  clay  straight  onto  the 
beach. 

There  halting  he  stared  out  to  sea;  the  snow  and  the  rising 
mist  of  the  winter  night  hid  all  from  him  save  the  line  of  waves 
breaking  on  the  wet  sand;  melancholy  and  terrible  was  the 
perfect  loneliness;  the  watcher  drew  himself  up  and  looked 
back  at  the  light,  then  round  again  at  the  ghastly  yellow  sun- 
set that  seemed  to  be  far  distant;  a  mere  slash  of  gloomy  color 
in  the  mist  and  gray.  Then  suddenly  he  drew  back;  a  little 
boat  was  pushing  through  the  waves ;  he  could  hear  the  grind 
of  the  keel  on  the  pebbles  as  is  struck  on  the  beach  and  a  man 
leaped  from  it  into  the  surf. 

The  man  upon  the  shore  watched  him  struggling  up  the 
beach,  saw  him  turn  and  wave  to  his  companion  as  the  boat 
disappeared  again  into  the  mist,  then  advance  as  rapidly  as 
he  was  able  toward  the  ridge  of  the  fen. 

The  sun  faded  to  a  mere  stain ;  the  mist  drifted  off  the  sea 
mingled  with  sleet  and  snow;  the  man  on  the  beach  drew 
nearer  the  other,  all  unconscious  that  any  soul  was  watching 
him. 

With  labor  and  difficulty  he  threaded  his  way  onward  and 
up  the  shelving  ledge,  the  other  watching  him  the  while  as  he 
drew  nearer,  nearer.  Suddenly  they  met  —  face  to  face  —  a 
few  yards  apart;  the  new-comer  stood  motionless  with  surprise 
and  his  hand  flew  to  his  sword. 

"For  which  King  ?"  cried  the  man  in  waiting.  His  voice 
sounded  strange  and  hollow  through  the  damp  silence;  the 
new  arrival  drew  a  step  nearer,  searching  the  strange  figure; 


110  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

he  was  a  slight,  fair  young  man  and  showed  a  face  white  and 
strained. 

"Which  King?"  he  repeated,  moistening  his  lips. 

"Are  there  two  ? "  came  the  answer  from  the  folds  of  the 
heavy  cloak.  "I  stand  for  King  James." 

"Ah!"  with  a  sigh  of  relief  the  young  man  relaxed  the  ten- 
sion of  his  attitude.  "You  were  sent  to  meet  me  then  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  other  quietly,  "to  take  your  papers." 

"My  papers  ?"  the  new  arrival  again  showed  alarm.  "I  am 
to  take  them  to  London." 

"I  will  take  them  to  London." 

"Sir,  your  authority?" 

"The  King's." 

The  messenger  smiled,  regaining  his  presence  of  mind. 

"Sir,  I  pray  you  show  it  me  —  this  is  a  strange  request  — 
I  go  to  Hunt's  hut;  will  you  accompany  me  ?" 

"Yes  —  but  first  your  papers. " 

The  Jacobite  laughed.  "You  grow  peremptory  —  let  me 
pass." 

"I  desire  your  papers." 

"I  will  not  part  with  them." 

"It  were  wiser." 

"Do  you  threaten  me  ?" 

"By  God,  yes!" 

The  King's  messenger  laughed  again;  his  eyes  blazed  in  a 
white  face. 

"William  of  Orange  is  ill-served  in  such  clumsy  knaves  as 
you !"  he  cried. 

"Give  me  the  papers,  damn  you !" 

"Do  you  think  me  a  traitor  ?" 

"By  God  —  I  know  you  a  fool !" 


THE  KING'S  MESSENGER  111 

"Stand  out  of  my  way!"  and  the  messenger  made  a  step 
forward,  but  the  other  seized  him  by  the  arm. 

"Do  you  think,"  he  cried  fiercely,  "that  I  am  going 
to  let  you  go  ?  By  Heaven  —  I  have  not  waited  here  for 
nothing. " 

The  King's  messenger  wrenched  himself  free:  "Spy  —  who 
betrayed  us  ?"  he  burst  forth,  and  he  gave  a  wild  glance  round 
the  desolate  fen;  the  other  seemed  to  read  his  thoughts. 

"There  is  no  ambush, "  he  said  scornfully,  "  'tis  you  and  I 
alone.  Who  think  you  is  the  better  man  ?  Will  you  try  issues 
with  me?" 

The  King's  messenger  an  instant  studied  his  opponent;  he 
saw  a  man  of  regal  height  and  make,  whose  face  was  hidden 
by  his  drooping  beaver  and  whose  figure  was  shrouded  in  a 
heavy  traveling  cloak;  a  hopeless  look  crossed  his  face;  he 
stepped  back  desperately. 

"You  or  I,"  he  said  through  his  teeth  —  "Well  — "  he  put 
his  hand  to  his  bosom  and  there  was  the  dull  gleam  of  metal. 
But  the  other  had  marked  his  action  and  instantly  his  hand 
flew  from  his  cloak ;  there  was  the  flash  and  report  of  a  pistol- 
shot  and  the  King's  messenger  fell  backwards  silently  into  the 
mist. 

"How  is  William  of  Orange  served  now?"  cried  the  man 
peering  forward;  his  smoking  pistol  in  his  hand,  "where  are 
you,  you  popish  dog  ?" 

He  sprang  forward  through  the  pools  and  morasses,  and 
confused  by  the  gathering  gloom,  stumbled  over  the  body. 
The  King's  messenger  had  fallen  prone,  his  head  down  among 
the  mud  and  stones;  his  slayer  lifted  him  up,  and  taking  his 
face  in  his  hands  peered  down  into  it. 

The  Jacobite  was  quite  dead ;  from  a  little  hole  in  his  temple 


112  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

the  thin  black  blood  trickled;  it  had  been  a  true  shot;  the  man 
who  held  him  smiled. 

"I  was  afraid  —  in  this  cursed  light,"  he  muttered,  "that  I 
might  have  bungled. "  Opening  the  dead  man's  coat,  he  went 
swiftly  through  the  pockets.  He  found  papers,  sealed  and 
loose;  a  purse  and  a  few  trinkets. 

The  money  he  flung  out  into  the  marsh;  the  other  matters 
he  thrust  carefully  into  the  breast  of  his  coat;  it  was  not  light 
enough  to  distinguish  the  papers ;  he  took  every  scrap  the  dead 
man  carried,  without  pausing  to  select. 

Then  he  rose  beside  the  body  and  looked  round.  It  would 
soon  be  utterly  dark;  the  snow  was  recommencing  to  fall 
heavily;  it  was  now  nearly  completely  dark;  he  had  to  feel  his 
way  cautiously  over  the  marsh  as  he  turned  in  the  direction 
of  the  light  that  glanced  through  the  snow-storm. 

He  made  steadily  toward  it;  the  snow  stinging  in  his  face, 
and  saw  it  grow  larger  till  he  could  discern  the  snowflakes 
drifting  swiftly  through  the  faint  halo  it  cast  upon  the  dark. 

The  ground  grew  firmer  under  foot;  he  had  gained  a  tongue 
of  dry  land,  and  in  front  of  him,  barely  visible,  was  the  black 
•  outline  of  the  smuggler's  hut  with  the  lamp  flaring  yellow  in 
the  square  window ;  with  this  aid  he  found  his  way  to  the  door 
and,  using  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  knocked  heavily. 

There  was  a  little  silence,  then  the  sound  of  cautious  foot- 
steps. 

The  door  was  slowly  unbolted,  opened  an  inch  or  so. 

"Who  is  it  ?"  said  a  woman's  voice  in  a  quick  whisper. 

"Mr.  Wedderburn  —  the  King's  messenger,"  he  answered. 

"The  password  ?" 

"The  white  rose  and  the  golden  lily — England  and  France. " 

She  opened  the  door  at  that  and  motioned  him  to  enter. 


THE  KING'S  MESSENGER  113 

As  he  obeyed  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  a  young 
girl ;  she  held  a  candle  in  her  hand  that  guttered  in  the  draught 
and  sent  a  trail  of  smoke  and  flame  over  her  shoulder;  round 
her  brown  bodice  was  a  kerchief  of  vivid  scarlet  and  in  her  ears 
hoops  of  red-gold  glittered  and  swung. 

"My  father  is  out  looking  for  you,  Mr.  Wedderburn,"  she 
said  with  the  calm  of  one  grown  easy  at  a  perilous  trade,  care- 
less and  used  to  danger. 

"I  am  late,"  he  answered.  With  a  heavy  step  he  advanced 
into  the  room.  She  bolted  the  door 

"Yes  —  the  boat  was  expected  two  hours  ago  —  we  were 
there  to  meet  you  —  you  missed  my  father,  sir  ?  —  he  went  to 
the  coast;  he  will  be  returning  soon." 

In  silence  he  flung  off  his  dripping  cloak  and  hat  and  half- 
turning,  glanced  at  Celia  Hunt.  She  looked  back  at  him  with  a 
sudden  arrested  interest. 

It  was  the  most  remarkable,  the  handsomest  face  that  she 
had  ever  seen;  both  his  expression  and  the  carriage  of  his 
splendid  person  indicated  an  arrogance  that  neither  speech 
nor  action  might  express ;  it  seemed  as  if  he  forever  contained 
a  surging,  passionate  haughtiness;  it  was  in  the  lines  of  his 
clear-cut  mouth  and  in  the  expression  of  his  dark  blue  eyes; 
eyes  whose  beauty  was  marred  by  a  look,  strained,  slightly 
distraught.  He  wore  no  peruke  and  his  short  hair  was  black 
as  his  heavy  brows;  he  was  of  a  pale  complexion  naturally, 
and  now  his  eyes  showed  dark  in  a  face  markedly  pale. 

"Ye  are  the  messenger  from  St.  Germains  ?"  asked  Celia 
Hunt. 

"Have  I  not  said  so  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Wedderburn  with  a 
curl  of  his  short  upper  lip.  "Why  do  you  stare  so,  wench  ?  I 
am  not  used  to  wait  for  my  welcome." 


114  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Ye  are  not  he  who  came  here  last  under  the  name  of  An- 
drew Wedderburn,"  said  the  girl. 

"You  must  be  used  to  feigned  names  here,"  was  the  answer. 
"Do  you  doubt  me  ?  —  be  satisfied."  With  the  slightly  grand- 
iloquent magnificence  that  was  his  unconscious  manner,  he 
drew  forth  the  papers  from  his  breast  and  held  them  out. 

She  saw  the  seal  of  King  James  on  the  topmost.  "You  will 
stay  the  night  here  ?"  she  said. 

He  gave  a  reckless  little  laugh  and  seated  himself  at  the 
table. 

"When  did  the  King's  son  leave  here  ?" 

"This  morning." 

"I  am  to  meet  him  in  London.  And  Mr.  Caryl;  you  have 
heard  from  him  ?" 

"He  told  of  your  coming. " 

"Ah  —  he  also,  I  am  to  meet  in  London. "  He  leaned  back  in 
his  chair  as  if  he  was  weary  and  stared  into  the  fire  with  moody 
eyes. 

The  girl,  Celia  Hunt,  set  about  getting  food  with  an  air 
half-awed,  half-doubting. 

Of  all  the  Jacobites,  nobles,  captains  and  gentlemen,  spies 
and  common  rufflers  who  had  used  her  father's  hut  in  their 
passage  to  and  from  France,  this  man  was  the  most  at  ease, 
the  most  arrogant  of  manner,  as  if  his  life  was  in  no  danger, 
nor  his  cause  in  any  fear  of  failure;  yet  at  the  same  time  she 
had  seen  none  with  eyes  that  held  such  excited  wildness  or  who 
kept  his  hand  so  continually  on  his  sword.  She  puzzled  over 
him;  he  was  no  daredevil  of  a  cavalier  or  knight-errant,  eager 
for  adventure  like  some  of  these  plotters;  there  was  nothing 
roistering  or  gay  about  him ;  he  had  an  air  of  passionate  cold- 
ness; like  a  Puritan  who  disdains  the  worldly  things  about 


THE  KING'S  MESSENGER  115 

him  and  puts  a  full-blooded  strength  into  grave  desires;  he 
looked  past  the  girl  as  if  she  had  been  an  old  woman,  a  treat- 
ment she  was  not  used  to;  she  was  handsome  enough  in  her 
lean,  vivid  way  to  win  courtesy  at  least;  and  of  ten  more  from 
men  older  and  graver  than  this  one. 

The  Duke  of  Berwick  had  kissed  her  when  he  left  that 
morning  and  given  her  the  diamond  brooch  that  glittered  on 
her  breast;  it  was  the  Stuart  way  of  winning  and  keeping 
loyalty;  she  was  shrewd  enough  to  know  it  was  only  a  manner 
of  paying  a  debt,  but  she  liked  the  implied  compliment  that  it 
was  not  money  could  buy  her  services;  this  man,  she  thought 
scornfully,  might  likely  enough  reward  her  at  parting  with  a 
handful  of  silver.  Having  spread  the  remains  of  the  Duke  of 
Berwick's  breakfast  on  a  cloth  of  smuggled  lace  and  having 
set  beside  them  some  bottles  of  the  wine  brought  secretly  from 
France,  the  girl  turned  to  Mr.  Wedderburn. 

"Your  supper,"  she  said  curtly. 

He  rose,  flung  himself  before  the  table  and  began  to  eat 
absently. 

"You  had  a  rough  passage,"  remarked  Celia,  eying  him. 

"Yes,"  he  barely  looked  at  her  as  he  spoke. 

"You  are  often  employed  by  His  Majesty  ?" 

"Yes,"  was  his  answer,  given  even  more  coldly  than  before. 

Celia  came  closer,  resting  her  firm  brown  hands  on  the  edge 
of  the  table  and,  leaning  forward,  she  peered  into  his  face. 

The  ragged  yellow  lamplight  flickered  over  her,  lighting  her 
eyes  and  her  dusky  hair;  she  spoke,  very  low. 

"You  are  a  Williamite  spy,"  she  said  steadily. 

Mr.  Wedderburn  pushed  his  chair  back  and  his  mouth  took 
on  the  scornful  curve  that  came  there  very  easily. 

"Prove  it,"  he  answered  quietly. 


116  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"I  cannot  prove  it  —  but  I  know,"  said  Celia  Hunt.  "You 
are  that  damned  thing  —  a  spy.  You  dare  not  lie  deep  enough 
to  deny  it. " 

He  rose  up  softly ;  he  was  outside  the  circle  of  the  lamplight, 
but  her  straining  eyes  saw  his  face  was  drawn. 

"I  dare  do  anything,"  he  said,  "but  I  do  not  choose  to  an- 
swer. " 

"There  is  no  need,"  she  said,  very  erect  and  taut,  "I  know. " 

They  faced  each  other,  the  table  and  half  the  room  between 
them;  he  touched  his  breast  lightly;  a  square-cut  diamond 
ring  glistened  through  the  lace  that  fell  over  his  hand. 

"I  carry  a  something  here,"  he  said  with  a  light  haughtiness* 
"that  will  serve  my  turn  against  anything  you  may  say." 

"How  did  you  get  them  ?"  she  asked.  "The  papers  —  how 
much  do  you  know  ?  " 

His  lids  dropped  over  his  flashing  eyes;  he  lifted  his  head 
still  higher. 

"Enough,"  he  said. 

"To  hang  us  all,"  said  Celia  Hunt  hoarsely.  "My  God !" 

"Perhaps,"  he  assented.  "Now  will  you  try  to  send  a  warn- 
ing to  Jerome  Caryl  ?" 

She  had  fallen  back  a  step. 

"No,"  she  said.  "I  shall  prevent  you  leaving  this  place  — " 

He  laughed.  "Who  will  stop  me  ?"  he  asked. 

She  swayed  a  little,  staring  at  him. 

"You  know  too  much,"  she  panted.  "Oh,  my  God,  I  would 
give  something  to  know  what  to  do."  He  laughed  at  her;  with 
a  lithe  movement  he  came  close,  his  right  hand  was  loosely 
over  his  sword,  the  other,  shapely  and  white,  rested  on  his  hip, 
thrust  into  the  folds  of  his  purple  sash;  the  carelessness  of  his 
attitude  stung  her  like  a  taunt, 


THE  KING'S  MESSENGER  117 

"I  arn  a  fool !"  she  cried  passionately.  "I  should  have  waited 
till  ye  slept  then  bid  my  father  settle  you  —  you  hireling  spy !" 

"Slept  here!"  he  answered  with  curling  lip,  "and  keep  a 
civil  tongue,  baggage,  or  I  shall  strike  you  down.  I  have  no 
ceremony  with  your  kind." 

"Ah,"  she  whispered,  "you  would  dare  to  murder  me." 

"I  have  dared  God,  Himself,"  he  answered  wildly,  "I  know 
nothing  you  can  name  I  would  not  dare  —  but  I  should  dis- 
dain to  murder  you  — " 

Her  horror-stricken  eyes  dwelt  on  his  magnificent  face;  her 
angry  courage  ebbed  before  his  strangeness. 

"Who  are  you  ?"  she  asked. 

But  he  laughed,  not  heeding  her;  his  eyes  showed  hazed  and 
vacant. 

"Accursed,"  he  muttered  —  "God  knows  —  accursed  — 
at  least  one  of  the  masters  of  the  earth  —  mad  perhaps  —  you 
have  heard  of  me,  belike  — "  He  turned  a  distracted  gaze  on 
her;  she  thought  suddenly  that  he  was  mad  —  or  drunk,  and 
cowered  against  the  wall  in  personal  fear. 

Again  he  laughed  loudly,  and  moved -unsteadily,  lurching 
toward  her,  it  was  as  if  some  passion  of  his  soul  had  been 
suddenly  loosed  and  blinded  him. 

"Black  magic  —  and  blood  — "  he  said  wildly. 

"Cursed  —  always  blood  —  and  witchery  —  you  cannot 
get  rid  of  it  —  the  thought  of  Hell  —  and  the  faces  of  your 
dead  who  died  foully  —  your  disfigured  dead  —  and  your 
child  slaying  your  child  —  both  damned  —  and  singeing  in 
Hell!" 

He  stared  at  her  with  his  blue  eyes  vague  and  fixed;  she 
shrieked  out  thinly: 

"God's  name  —  who  are  you  ?" 


118  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"We  conjure  in  the  Devil's  name!"  he  answered  madly.  "I 
am  of  the  cursed  Dalrymples  —  and  I  am  damned  in  the  name 
of  John,  Master  of  Stair!" 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

THE  sound  of  his  own  name  seemed  to  sober  the 
man ;  he  sank  down  heavily  into  a  chair,  clutching 
his  sword,    his   wild    vacant  eyes  staring  before 
him.  Celia  Hunt  stood  dumbly  regarding  him, 
disbelief  and  fear  in  her  face.  The  Master  of  Stair ! 

She  had  heard  of  him  as  the  fiercest  of  Whigs,  one  of  the 
most  powerful  men  in  the  three  Kingdoms,  the  friend  of 
William  of  Orange  —  and  the  ruler  of  Scotland  —  yet  he  was 
here  doing  spy's  work  and  needlessly  revealing  himself!  It 
was  incredible;  yet  she  had  heard  that  the  Dalrymples  were 
mad  —  and  accursed:  if  this  were  not  he,  why  should  he  lie: 
claim  so  burdensome  a  title. 

She  crept  a  little  closer. 

"You  are  the  Master  of  Stair?"  she  whispered.  "You  ask 
me  to  believe  that  ?" 

He  looked  up  at  her  and  his  eyes  were  not  the  eyes  of  any 
mere  ordinary  man,  she  thought. 

"I  am  John  Dalrymple,"  he  said,  "what  have  you  heard  of 
me  that  you  shrink  away  so  ?" 

"And  you  do  this  work !"  she  cried. 

"I  would  trust  no  other  man  to  do  this  work  I  have  in  hand, " 
he  answered.  "Nobles  and  princes  are  among  your  Jacobite 
plotters  —  we  do  not  send  hired  scum  to  combat  them.  I  am 
the  Master  of  Stair." 

119 


120  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Ah !  and  why  do  you  tell  me  ?" 

"You !"  his  eyes  flickered  over  her  scornfully.  "Why  should 
I  not  tell  you?" 

"Would  you  bribe  me  to  your  side?"  she  asked  breath- 
lessly. 

"No,"  he  answered;  "I  have  accomplished  my  end.  I  know 
all  I  need  to  know.  I  touched  the  bottom  of  their  plot  days 
ago."  He  rose  with  a  sudden  laugh.  "Berwick  and  his  fellow- 
fools  !  They  have  been  too  secure  —  did  they  think  we  had 
neither  eyes  nor  ears !" 

Celia  Hunt  moistened  her  lips  slowly  with  the  tip  of  her  red 
tongue. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  she  asked. 

He  hesitated,  glanced  at  her  with  gloomy  scorn.  "I  am  going 
to  London  as  Andrew  Wedderburn;  to-morrow  night  I  shall 
meet  Jerome  Caryl  and  obtain  from  him  the  names  of  all 
concerned  in  this  last  plot. " 

"Then  ?" 

"Then,  wench,  I  shall  put  that  list  before  the  King,"  he 
answered,  "and  the  business  will  be  done  with  —  this  popish 
scum  will  lie  quiet  a  while. " 

"Clean  work  for  a  gentleman,  Sir  John,"  she  cried  in  a  clear 
scorn.  "I  know  some  dirty  knaves  would  not  go  to  such  lengths 
of  treachery  to  save  their  necks  — 

He  swung  round  on  her;  but  she  laughed  up  into  his  face 
without  flinching. 

"Why,  you  can  kill  me,"  she  said,  "I  am  a  Jacobite,  a 
smuggler,  I've  helped  many  a  fugitive  out  of  England  and 
many  a  conspirator  in  —  and  if  you  are  what  you  say,  I  am 
doubly  glad  to  be  the  enemy  of  the  government  whose  minis- 
ters are  such  as  you !" 


THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"You  are  very  reckless,"  said  the  Master  of  Stair.  "I  shall 
not  forget  you  are  outside  the  law. " 

"As  you  are  outside  hope  of  Heaven!"  she  answered  him 
fiercely.  "Accursed,  root  and  branch  —  you  damned  Dai- 
ry mples  —  oh,  I  have  heard  some  tales  of  you  —  if  you  indeed 
be  he  they  call  the  Master  of  Stair. " 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  side  and  stared  down  at  her;  he  had 
grown  ghastly  white. 

Lithe  and  quick  in  her  movements  she  swung  close  to  him, 
the  blood  flushing  her  dark  cheek. 

"How  did  your  sister  die  ?"  she  mocked  with  the  courage  of 
desperation. 

"As  any  man's  might  have  done,"  he  answered  hoarsely. 

"How  did  your  brother  die?"  she  cried. 

"Stop!"  cried  the  Master  of  Stair,  "Stop!" 

But  she  drew  herself  up  defiantly  and  flung  out  "How  did 
your  son  die,  Sir  John  Dalrymple !  Surely  there  is  a  curse  on 
you !" 

He  stood  motionless,  staring. 

"I  think  his  brother  killed  him,"  whispered  Celia  Hunt.  "I 
think  your  brother  shot  himself  for  hate  of  you  —  I  think 
your  sister  went  mad  and  slew  her  bridegroom  — " 

"Does  all  the  world  know  this  ?"  he  said  in  a  strange  voice. 

"Your  family  has  been  a  fine  subject  for  common  talk  these 
many  years, "  she  answered. 

He  gave  a  vacant  laugh  and  turned  on  his  heel. 

"I  have  borne  too  much  for  your  tongue  to  move  me  much 
—  yet  —  if  you  speak  of  him  again  —  my  God !  —  I  shall 
strike  you  silent!" 

Despite  herself  his  tone  awed  her;  she  shrank  back  into  the 
shadows  and  her  venom  died  on  her  tongue. 


122  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

There  was  a  silence. 

The  Master  of  Stair  picked  up  his  hat  and  cloak  and  turned 
toward  the  door.  He  took  a  whistle  from  his  breast  and  blew 
three  times  into  the  night. 

Celia  Hunt  cried  as  figures  formed  out  of  the  blackness. 

"Arrest  this  girl  for  high  treason,  Captain,"  said  the  Master 
of  Stair  in  a  manner  quiet  and  courteous  as  a  couple  of  soldiers 
stepped  into  the  room,  "and  search  the  house  —  see  to  it  she 
sends  no  messages  —  you  will  find  me  in  Romney  to-night  — 
to-morrow  in  London." 

"I  was  glad  to  hear  your  signal,  Sir  John,"  answered  the 
soldier,  "  'tis  cold  on  these  fens. " 

"A  vile  place,"  said  the  Master  of  Stair.  "I  think  the  Jacob- 
ites will  use  it  no  more.  You  have  arrested  the  man,  Hunt  ?" 

"Yes,  Sir  John;  we  found  him  on  the  fens." 

"Good-night,  Captain."  He  lifted  his  hat  and  was  gone  into 
the  dark. 

Celia  Hunt  unpinned  the  Duke  of  Berwick's  brooch  and 
slipped  it  inside  her  bosom  before  they  came  to  tie  her  hands. 

"Maybe,"  said  the  officer,  "he  or  both  of  you  will  choose  to 
turn  informer. " 

Celia  flung  up  her  head  with  a  jerk  that  loosened  her  hair 
from  its  pins  and  sent  it  rippling  down  her  back:  she  laughed. 

Sir  John  Dalrymple  sat  in  his  room  in  Romney  a  few  hours 
later  writing. 

The  room  was  warm  and  comfortable;  a  bright  fire  burned 
on  the  red-tiled  hearth;  a  lamp  hung  over  the  table;  Sir  John 
wore  a  scarlet  satin  dressing-gown  that  fell  open  on  his  shirt 
and  cravat;  a  crystal  decanter  stood  empty  beside  him  and  a 
half-filled  wine-glass. 


THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR  123 

He  wrote  with  a  reckless  air  of  carelessness,  his  hand  flew 
fast  over  the  paper  in  a  bold  trailing  writing;  as  he  finished  a 
sheet  he  tossed  it  across  the  table  and  took  another.  He  was 
interrupted  by  some  one  softly  entering;  he  looked  up  with  an 
absorbed  frown  to  see  his  secretary  coming  toward  him  with 
letters  in  his  hand. 

Sir  John  pushed  his  chair  back  and  flung  down  his  pen ;  his 
brilliant  eyes  were  shadowed  underneath  and  there  was  a 
curious  drag  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth  as  if  he  had  been  in 
great  pain. 

"From  London  ?"  he  demanded  as  he  took  the  letters. 

"Yes,  Sir  John  —  forwarded  by  my  lord  your  father  to  the 
name  you  gave  him." 

"Sit  down,"  said  the  Master  of  Stair.  "I  may  need  you, 
Melville." 

The  secretary,  meek  and  fair,  sat  down  at  the  further  end  of 
the  table  and  began  mending  a  pen. 

Sir  John  took  up  the  first  of  his  letters  and  glanced  over  it 
eagerly. 

"From  Breadalbane, "  he  said.  "More  of  these  cursed  clans 
have  come  in  —  but  the  Macdonalds  remain  obdurate  —  I 
am  glad  of  it. " 

He  dashed  the  letter  down. 

"Melville,  you  will  get  me  those  maps  of  the  Highlands  I 
spoke  of  —  I  must  see  Breadalbane  —  he  is  in  London  now  — 
his  caution  allows  him  to  put  but  little  on  paper. " 

"Yes,  Sir  John,"  answered  the  secretary  and  noting  his 
master's  angry  tone  he  gave  him  a  furtive  glance  and  saw  him 
still  brooding  gloomily  over  Breadalbane's  letter. 

There  followed  a  long  pause  of  utter  slience;  then  the  secre- 
tary was  roused  into  a  start  by  a  letter  being  flung  down  the 


124  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

table  with  a  force  that  sent  it  onto  the  carpet  by  his  feet;  he 
was  used  to  sitting  quiet  under  stormy  episodes  and  with  an 
unmoved  face  he  went  on  mending  the  pen;  but  he  gave  a 
covert  glance  at  the  letter.  It  was  one  of  those  he  had  brought 
up;  the  seal  was  still  unbroken  and  the  inscription  was  in  a 
woman's  hand;  a  writing  the  secretary  knew  very  well  since 
it  was  that  of  Sir  John's  wife. 

Another  silence  broken  at  last  by  the  Master  of  Stair : 

"A  letter  from  the  King,"  he  said,  "put  it  with  the  others, 
Melville." 

"His  Majesty  does  not  know  you  have  left  London,  Sir 
John  ?" 

"No  —  nor  need  he  —  I  intend  to  say  nothing  of  this  plot 
till  I  have  discovered  everything.  I'll  have  no  more  Danger- 
field  scares  to  make  the  Jacks  laugh.  You  will  take  heed, 
Melville,  that  you  do  not  mention  to  any  this  visit  to  Romney. " 

The  secretary  assented  meekly.  The  Master  of  Stair  leaned 
back  in  his  chair;  above  his  red  gown  his  colorless  face  showed 
of  a  ghastly  pallor. 

"I  will  write  to  Breadalbane,"  he  said,  "I  will  dictate  the 
letter." 

Melville  drew  a  sheet  of  paper  toward  him  and  dipped  his 
pen  in  the  ink. 

"Head  it  Kensington,"  said  Sir  John.  "And  say  —  I  am 
sorry  Glengarry  and  Keppoch  are  safe  —  but  glad  Makian 
has  not  come  in  —  it  will  be  a  great  work  of  charity  to  be  exact 
in  rooting  out  that  damnable  race  —  the  worst  in  all  the 
Highlands.  I  rejoice  that  they  have  not  taken  the  oaths." 

The  secretary's  pen  went  busily  over  the  paper;  Sir  John 
took  up  his  wine-glass  and  emptied  it  slowly. 

"That  is  all,"  he  said.  "Fill  that  out." 


THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR  125 

The  secretary  handed  the  finished  letter  across  the  table 
and  Sir  John  signed  it,  then  fell  back  again  in  his  chair.  In 
silence,  Melville  put  the  papers  together. 

"There  in  my  own  hand  —  for  my  son  in  Holland,"  said 
the  Master  of  Stair.  "Put  them  up  —  maybe  the  child  will 
never  read  them,  nevertheless  send  them."  He  put  his  hand  to 
his  head  and  the  strange  distortion  of  his  mouth  deepened, 
marring  his  face. 

Melville  cleared  the  table  and  put  the  letters  neatly  into  a 
portfolio;  wiped  the  pens  and  took  away  the  inkstands;  his 
quiet  movements  did  not  disturb  the  silence. 

"Give  me  that  letter  on  the  floor,"  said  the  Master  of  Stair, 
suddenly. 

The  secretary  obeyed ;  Sir  John  took  it  with  the  tips  of  his 
fingers  and  laid  it  on  the  bare  table  in  front  of  him. 

"You  may  go  now  —  Melville,"  he  said.  "I  shall  start  by 
daybreak,  but  alone  —  I  shall  see  you  in  London  to-morrow 
evening  —  you  may  come  again  presently  and  help  me  to 
undress  — " 

"Yes,  Sir  John." 

The  secretary  moved  to  the  door  and  there  stopped,  struck 
by  something  utterly  tragic  and  forlorn  in  the  figure  of  the  man 
he  was  leaving.  The  Master  of  Stair  was  leaning  back  with  his 
head  uplifted  against  the  stiff  black  back  of  his  chair, 
his  hands  lay  slackly  on  the  arms  and  his  eyes  were  set  and 
vacant: 

"Sir  John,"  said  the  secretary  timidly.  "Will  you  not  go  to 
bed'?" 

"No,"  said  the  Master  of  Stair,  without  moving,  "No," 

Still  Melville  lingered. 

"You  look  tired,  Sir  John,"  he  ventured. 


126  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Why  should  you  care  ?"  was  the  answer.  "Take  your  own 
rest,  Melville." 

The  secretary  came  back  into  the  room.  "Sir,  as  you  ride  to 
London  so  early,  it  would  be  better  if  you  slept. " 

Sir  John  sat  up  and  looked  at  the  speaker  with  wide 
eyes. 

"If  I  might  choose  I  would  never  sleep  again,"  he  said. 
"And  I  would  never  see  the  dark. "  He  gave  a  short  laugh  and 
took  up  his  wife's  letter;  there  was  a  little  pause;  the  secretary 
waited,  ill  at  ease. 

"Melville — "  the  Master  of  Stair  spoke  abruptly,  "when 
did  my  sister  die  ?" 

A  little  painful  silence,  then  the  secretary  answered  awk- 
wardly: "It  was  before  I  came  to  you,  Sir  John,  about  twenty 
years  ago,  I  think." 

Sir  John  turned  the  unopened  letter  over  in  his  hands. 

"It  seems  longer,"  he  said  gloomily.  "  'Tis  an  old  tale  now 
—  but  I  had  it  flung  in  my  face  to-day  —  that  —  and  other 
things.  I  thought  I  had  forgotten  —  but  I  remember  now  that 
I  can  never  bear  to  open  a  door  that  resists  —  for  fear  —  for 
fear  of  seeing  again  what  I  saw  then.  When  I  thrust  open  that 
resisting  door  and  saw  her  murdered  bridegroom  across  the 
threshold  —  and  her  eyes  blinking  at  me  over  it  —  Melville, 
her  mad  eyes  —  that  looked  as  I  have  seen  mine  —  '  He 
dashed  his  hand  on  the  table  and  his  black  brows  contracted 
into  a  frown  of  agony;  his  was  the  fierce  pride  that  disdains 
control  and  restraint;  he  was  reckless  of  the  watching  curiosity 
of  the  other  man. 

"Why  did  that  wench  remind  me  ?"  he  cried  bitterly.  "I 
hear  Janet's  scream  again  —  and  see  over  her  bare  arm  the  — 
faugh !  these  things  are  not  terrible  to  hear,  Melville ;  they  are 


THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR  127 

easily  told  —  but  when  you  see  them  —  by  God !  when  you 
see  them  —  I  think  you  do  net  forget. " 

He  lifted  his  wild,  blue  eyes  with  something  almost  like 
appeal  in  them. 

"It  makes  a  tale  for  common  folk  to  mouth,"  he  said.  "Can 
nothing  be  buried  too  deep  for  spite  to  unearth  it  ?  Twenty 
years  ago !  I  remember  I  wore  my  first  sword  that  day  — 
cursed  —  what  sins  have  we  done  to  be  so  cursed  ?  Melville  — 
you  were  there  when  they  brought  my  dead  son  home  — " 
He  leaned  across  the  table  and  his  voice  sank.  "Tell  me,"  he 
said  hoarsely,  "did  he  not  look  terrible  ?" 

Melville  shrank  away. 

"Sir,"  he  faltered,  "no  more  than  any  dead  who  die  so." 

"Who  has  died  so  since  Cain  ?  "  demanded  the  Master  wild- 
ly: "slain  by  his  brother  —  God  and  man  call  it  an  awful 
thing." 

"Sir  — 'twas  in  mimic  fight  —  a  most  unhappy  acci- 
dent." 

"So  we  call  it;  so  we  gloss  it  over  —  but  you  and  I  know 
better,  Melville,"  answered  the  Master  —  "They  hated  each 
other  —  like  I  hated  my  brother  —  but  he  shot  himself  — 
better  than  if  I  had  done  it  —  yet  this  child's  guilt  is  mine  — 
Melville,  he  was  only  twelve,  but  the  black  Dalrymple  blood 
rose  in  him  —  my  sins  return  to  lay  my  house  in  ruins  and 
dishonor  me." 

"He  rose,  thrusting  his  chair  back;  with  his  great  height 
emphasized  by  the  flowing  scarlet  gown,  his  white  face  and  his 
passionate  eyes  dark  with  pain,  he  looked  almost  terrible;  the 
secretary  drew  further  outside  the  circle  of  the  lamplight. 

"Many  men,  Sir  John,"  he  said  in  his  even  official  voice, 
"would  gladly  have  your  sorrows  to  enjoy  your  fortunes. 


128  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

Worldly  greatness  such  as  yours  is  a  fine  balance  to  private 
misfortunes." 

This  smooth  axiom  was  unheeded  by  the  other,  but  he 
caught  and  dwelt  on  the  sense  of  what  was  said. 

"What  do  I  live  for,  Melville  ?  Why  have  I  flung  myself  into 
the  plot  —  to  work  with  my  own  hands  ?  Why  do  I  plan  to 
sweep  the  Highlands  bare  of  thieves  —  to  rein  in  a  kingdom 
and  fly  grandly  above  the  breath  of  popular  hate  ?  It  is  only 
that  I  may  forget  — even  for  a  while  —  I  wish  to  plunge  knee- 
deep  through  the  press  of  factions,  to  mount,  and  ever  mount, 
to  grasp  power,  and,  by  Heaven,  wield  it  —  that  I  may  cheat 
myself  into  thinking  I  forget  what  I  shall  never  forget  —  unto 
the  end !"  As  he  spoke  he  began  pacing  the  room;  there  was  a 
curious  lightness  in  his  step;  as  if  he  feared  to  walk  heavily; 
as  if  he  dreaded  waking  echoes;  he  still  held  his  wife's  letter  in 
his  hand. 

"Melville,  get  you  to  rest,"  he  said  over  his  shoulder  and  his 
tone  invited  no  dallying  with  his  command;  the  secretary 
turned  and  the  door  closed  softly  on  his  departure. 

Sir  John  stopped  under  the  lamp  and  broke  the  seal  of  his 
letter. 

It  was  dated  from  his  London  house  and  written  in  a  tremb- 
ling, much  blotted,  hand. 

It  began : 

SIR  JOHN, 

Indeed  you  must  come  home,  indeed  I  cannot  bear  —  I  know 
not  where  you  are.  Was  such  your  commands  ?  My  lord,  your  father, 
says  he  will  send  this  with  the  other  letters,  the  Lord  can  alone  tell  if 
you  will  get  this,  as  my  lord,  your  father,  as  you  know,  lies  to  me 
without  pity,  yet  complaints  of  him  are  not  the  reason  of  my  writing, 
yet  I  would  say  few  women  would  take  from  him  what  I  do  patiently 


THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR  129 

being  past  long  since  all  attempts  to  move  either  you  or  him  to  any 
consideration  for  me  whose  fate  is  the  heartbroken  and  neglected, 
with  no  friend  but  one  whom  you  know  —  and  do  not  like,  I  mean 
Tom  Wharton,  who  is  often  here  now;  but  I  cannot  help  it;  he  knew 
my  boy  and  the  house  is  killing  me  with  its  emptiness  and  loneliness; 
my  lord  is  morose  and  hates  me  and  therefore,  though  God  knows  I 
would  be  willing  never  to  see  your  face  again,  I  do  ask  you  to  come 
back  if  you  would  not  find  me  mad  or  flown;  perhaps  you  do  not  care 
that  my  heart  is  broken  and  that  since  the  boy  — 

The  Master  of  Stair  tore  the  letter  savagely  across. 

"Why  did  I  open  it  ?"  he  cried  passionately.  "Why  does  she 
reproach  me  ?  Can  I  give  her  back  her  boy  ?" 

He  crossed  to  the  dying  fire  and  thrust  the  half-unread,  ill- 
written  letter  into  the  heart  of  the  flames  and  his  face  was  very 
bitter. 

"Had  I  not  mated  with  a  fool,  my  luck  might  have  been 
better,"  he  said  fiercely.  "When  I  have  fought  and  silenced 
all  the  world  her  wails  rise  to  unnerve  me  —  the  boy !  —  what 
does  she  know  what  it  was  to  me  to  lose  that  boy !  But  you 
shall  not  forget  grief,  madam,  in  the  company  of  Tom  Whar- 
ton." He  flung  himself  into  his  old  place  at  the  table;  outside 
a  clock  struck  three ;  on  the  hearth  his  wife's  letter  flared  into 
a  tall  thin  flame  above  the  dead  coals. 

"God  knows  I  would  be  willing  never  to  see  your  face 
again  — " 

The  sentence  recurred  to  him  dully;  so  utterly  alone  — 
who  was  there  that  would  care  to  see  him  again  ? 

He  knew  of  none;  the  boy  was  dead. 

"I  care  not,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "I  am  the  Master  of 
Stair.  I  am  Scotland.  I  do  not  need  a  home  —  a  woman's 
affection  —  those  things  are  for  smaller  men  and  what  matter 
if  they  point  at  me  as  a  man  accursed  —  is  not  my  name  state- 


130  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

ly  high  above  it  all  ?  I  care  not."  Yet  even  as  he  spoke  his  head 
sank  wearily  into  his  hand  and  the  helpless,  useless  tears  were 
blinding  him. 


CHAPTER  XII 


DELIA  FEATHERSTONEHAUGH  sat  alone  in 
the  back  parlor  of  "The  Sleeping  Queen"; 
it  was  New  Year's  Eve,  about  six  o'clock  and 
the  quiet  little  inn  was  deserted. 

It  stood  in  a  dreary  back  street  close  to  Westminster  Abbey 
and  was  a  resort  well-known  to  Jacobites  and  almost  unheard 
of  by  others;  in  the  upper  rooms  was  a  printing-press  that 
turned  out  hundreds  of  the  lampoons  and  pamphlets  that 
daily  strewed  the  city  and  in  this  dull  chamber  more  than  one 
famous  gentleman  had  drunk  to  the  health  of  King  James. 

Delia  had  been  alone  all  day,  her  brother  and  Jerome 
Caryl  had  been  summoned  to  a  meeting  with  Berwick,  who 
was  in  hiding  in  Southwark;  she  knew  they  would  return  to 
meet  the  messenger  from  France,  Mr.  Wedderburn,  who 
was  due  this  evening,  but  the  hour  she  could  not  tell. 

The  room  was  large  and  low  with  plain  plaster  walls  and 
uncarpeted  floor;  on  the  high  chimneypiece  two  huge  white 
china  dogs  grinned  at  each  other  either  side  a  wooden  clock; 
the  fireplace  was  laid  with  rough  brown  Dutch  tiles  that 
bore  the  history  of  the  fall  of  man  in  rude  bold  figures;  Delia 
sat  in  one  of  the  well-worn  chairs,  and  stared  absently  at  the 
round  fat  face  of  Eve  who  looked  up  distressfully  from  the 
hearth,  glowing  red  from  the  fire. 

The  room  was  full  of  the  sound  of  bells,  the  bells  of  St. 

131 


132  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

Margaret's  and  the  Abbey  chiming  together  steadily.  The 
girl  listened  to  them  dreamily,  and  her  thoughts  were  in 
Scotland,  the  desolate  Glencoe  —  the  Glen  p'  Weeping  — 
were  they  safe,  those  Macdonalds  ?  —  very  far-away  they 
seemed,  helpless,  too,  and  pitiful  for  all  their  fierceness;  she 
prayed  they  might  have  taken  the  oaths;  she  did  not  care  to 
think  of  Ronald  Macdonald  as  among  the  dead. 

With  a  little  sigh  she  leaned  forward ;  she  wore  a  long  dress 
of  dark  gray  silk  and  in  the  heavy  curls  of  her  hazel  hair  was 
a  band  of  velvet  of  a  bright  pure  blue;  in  the  plain  collar  of 
her  gown  shone  a  little  turquoise  brooch. 

Her  eyes,  dark  brown  and  brooding,  looked  soft  as  pansies 
under  her  smooth  white  brow,  and  her  mouth  strong  and 
gentle  was  very  sweetly  set;  it  was  a  fair  musing  face  she 
rested  on  her  hand;  a  face  calmly  troubled. 

Through  the  bells  came  the  sound  of  footsteps;  she  thought 
it  might  be  her  brother  or  Caryl,  but  the  step  was  too  light 
for  either. 

She  rose  slowly,  her  eyes  on  the  door. 

It  opened  and  a  man  stepped  in. 

"Miss  Delia  ?"  he  asked  softly,  "the  sister  of  Sir  Perseus  ?" 

"Yes." 

He  closed  the  door. 

"They  sent  me  here  to  wait  the  coming  of  Mr.  Caryl," 
he  said.  "I  am  Andrew  Wedderburn  —  from  France."  He 
came  into  the  room,  his  hat  in  his  hand ;  Delia  looked  at  him 
in  silence,  she  stood  with  her  hand  on  the  arm  of  her  chair, 
the  firelight  full  on  her  face. 

"May  I  wait  here?"  asked  Mr.  Wedderburn.  "I  have 
satisfied  the  host  of  my  identity  —  but  you  —  will  you  see 
my  papers  ?" 


THE  LOVE  OF  DELIA  133 

"Sir  —  we  do  not  question  friends,"  she  said.  "How 
should  you  be  here  if  you  were  not  the  King's  messen- 
ger?" 

His  blue  eyes  dwelt  on  her  a  second  with  a  curious  look; 
he  laid  his  hat  on  a  chair.  "Help  me  with  my  coat,"  he  said 
quietly.  "Will  you  not  —  the  room  is  warm  ?" 

She  jcame   slowly   toward    him    with   a   half -hesitation. 

He  wore  a  light-colored  roquelaure  that  he  had  unbuttoned 
and  great  riding-gloves  that  he  pulled  off  to  fling  beside  his 
hat;  as  Delia  approached  him  she  was  aware  of  a  heavy 
perfume  mingled  with  the  atmosphere  of  cold  outer  air  with- 
out, that  he  carried.  Timidly  she  took  his  coat  by  the  collar 
and  helped  him  with  it;  as  she  did  so  his  hand,  ice-cold, 
touched  hers  and  she  colored  foolishly. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  and  crossed  to  the  fire. 

Delia  stood  still,  holding  his  coat;  the  strong  perfume  it 
was  redolent  of  seemed  to  make  her  giddy;  the  close  contact 
with  his  personality  had  been  as  strong,  as  real  a  thing  as  if 
some  one  had  struck  her;  she  turned  to  look  at  the  man  with 
a  feeling  that  her  head  was  spinning. 

He  had  taken  some  papers  from  his  breast  and  was  looking 
at  them;  he  wore  a  suit  of  geranium-colored  velvet,  a  waist- 
coat branched  with  silver  and  buttoned  with  brilliants;  his 
face  and  the  front  curls  of  his  black  peruke  were  powered; 
over  his  lace  tie  a  bow  of  wide  black  velvet  was  tied  under  his 
chin;  the  scabbard  of  his  sword  was  gold  and  he  wore  a  num- 
ber of  ornaments  that  glittered  as  he  moved,  yet  his  appear- 
ance was  one  of  gloom  not  gaiety,  and  the  splendor  of  his 
superb  face  was  marred  by  a  look  of  wildness,  contained  and 
held  in. 

Delia  gave  a  little  half-cry  of  surprise: 


134  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Sir,"  she  said  faintly,  "came  you  in  this  guise  from 
France  ?" 

He  looked  up  as  if  he  did  not  understand. 

"I  came  by  Romney  Marsh,"  he  said.  "Hunt's  cottage  — 
you  know  it?" 

"I  mean,"  explained  Delia  with  a  great  flush,  "that  our 
messengers  are  usually  more  plainly  habited." 

He  glanced  over  his  clothes. 

"Ah!"  he  gave  a  sudden  smile,  "merely  the  fashion  of 
Paris,  Miss  Delia  —  I  have  escaped  detection  —  so  what 
matters  it  ?" 

"Nothing,"  she  assented.  "Only  you  look  more  like  one  of 
the  Prince's  courtiers,  Mr.  Wedderburn,  than  the  King's 
friends,  who  usually  go  roughly  clad." 

He  gave  her  another  quick  look. 

"See  my  commission,  madam  —  " 

"Oh,  no  —  "  she  protested.  "Show  it  to  Mr.  Caryl  —  " 

"Is  he  coming  here  —  soon  ?" 

"Yes  —  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Wedderburn." 

She  dropped  into  silence  after  that;  he  put  his  papers 
back  and  stared  at  the  brown  tiles,  suddenly  he  looked 
at  her: 

"How  loud  the  bells  sound,"  he  said,  "it  is  Westminster 
is  it  not  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Delia. 

He  turned  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire. 

"Why  do  you  remain  there  ?"  he  asked.  "Do  I  frighten  you 
that  you  will  not  come  and  sit  down  ?" 

"You  —  a  little  confuse  me,"  she  answered,  then  feeling 
the  folly  of  it  was  silent  again. 

Mr.  Wedderburn  laughed. 


THE  LOVE  OF  DELIA  135 

"A  plotter,  Miss  Delia,  should  not  so  easily  be  put  out  — 
you  are  an  ardent  plotter,  are  you  not  ?" 

With  a  semblance  of  ease  she  crossed  over  to  him.  "I 
know  not,"  she  said.  "I  have  done  nothing  for  my  cause  — 
as  you  have,  sir. " 

"I  have  served  my  King  well,"  he  answered  gloomily 
There  fell  a  little  silence ;  they  were  only  a  foot  apart  and  the 
sense  of  his  presence  over  her  was  as  strong  as  if  he  touched 
her  with  both  hands;  instinctively  she  made  a  sharp  move- 
ment backwards  and  something  fell  with  a  rattle  to  the 
ground. 

"Your  brooch,"  said  Mr.  Wedderburn  and  picked  it  up. 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  open  collar. 

"Ah  —  it  is  hard  to  fasten." 
-  "Let  me  try,"  said  he  gravely. 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  confused  manner. 

"Yes;  the  fastening  is  difficult,"  said  Mr.  Wedderburn  with 
the  sapphire  in  his  hand  —  hold  up  your  head." 

Obviously  nerving  herself,  Delia  obeyed;  he  bent  over 
her  and  his  tie  brushed  her  bosom;  his  hand  touched  her 
bare  throat  as  he  adjusted  the  brooch;  at  the  sensation  she 
gave  an  uncontrollable  start  that  made  the  pin  again  fly  and 
prick  her  flesh;  with  a  little  cry  she  stepped  back. 

"I  have  hurt  you!"  cried  Mr.  Wedderburn;  and  his  white 
face  slightly  flushed  —  "Forgive  me  —  " 

"Ah,  no,  'twas  mine  own  fault,"  said  Delia,  but  if  the 
scratch  had  been  poisoned  she  could  not  have  spoken  more 
faintly  or  with  paler  lips. 

Mr.  Wedderburn  looked  at  her  keenly  and  she  seemed  to 
know  it  though  her  eyes  were  downcast,  for  her  face  was 
flushed  as  suddenly  as  his  and  she  set  her  teeth  in  her  under  lip. 


136  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"What  is  your  part  in  these  plots  ?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

Still  looking  down  she  answered. 

"Sir,  I  do  what  I  am  bid  —  at  present  little  enough  —  if 
a  chance  came  I  should  pray  to  be  worthy  of  it  —  I  would 
give  my  life  for  the  cause." 

"What  cause  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Wedderburn.  "The  in- 
vasion of  England  and  the  assassination  of  the  King?" 

"The  King  ?"  she  echoed,  amazed. 

"King  William  —  " 

"Ah  —  the  Prince !"  cried  Delia.  "Do  they,  sir,  call  him 
King  at  St.  Germains  ?" 

Mr.  Wedderburn  looked  vexed:  "King  de  facto  he  is,  Miss 
Delia  —  even  when  you  acknowledge  James  King  de  jure  I " 

Delia  smiled. 

"We  make  no   count  of  these   lawyer's   terms,   sir  — 

"Nor  of  the  law,  I  think,"  he  answered.  "  'Tis  my  profes- 
sion." 

"You  are  a  lawyer,  sir  ?" 

He  smiled  gloomily. 

"Yes  —  a  rare  thing,  you  will  say  to  find  a  lawyer  and  a 
conspirator  in  one  — " 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Delia,  "but  I  had  rather,  sir,  you  had  been  a 
soldier. " 

"I  have  been  that,  too,"  he  answered.  "I've  trailed  a  pike 
in  France  and  Holland  with  fine  scum  for  company  — 
he  turned  round  on  her  suddenly  —  "that  must  have  been 
before  you  were  born,  Miss  Delia." 

She  gave  a  start  of  surprise;  he  seemed  a  young  man;  he 
read  her  thought  and  smiled : 

"I  am  six  and  thirty;  you,  I  think,  not  above  eighteen; 
my  soldiering  was  more  than  twenty  years  ago  —  a  dead 


THE  LOVE  OF  DELIA  137 

thing !  —  but  you  have  not  answered  me  —  are  you  deeply 
in  this  plot  —  to  assassinate  the  Prince  ?" 

"I  have  not  heard  of  it,"  she  answered.  "They  do  not  tell 
me  everything  —  yet  I  can  answer  for  Mr.  Caryl  at  least 
that  he  would  not  stain  his  cause  with  murder. " 

He  frowned. 

"Is  he  your  lover  ?" 

"No,"  her  brown  eyes  lifted  steadily.  "I  have  no  lover." 

Mr.  Wedderburn  considered  her  curiously. 

"Well,  you  are  young  enough,"  he  said. 

"Older  than  you  think,"  she  smiled;  her  eyelids  fell 
again. 

They  both  became  aware  of  a  difference  in  the  room; 
Mr.  Wedderburn  went  to  the  window. 

"The  bells  have  stopped,"  he  said;  he  opened  the  case- 
ment with  a  reckless  impatient  gesture,  and  a  cloud  of  snow 
was  blown  in  on  him.  "Come  here,"  he  said  in  a  lowered  voice. 
"See  —  'tis  so  dark  'tis  like  looking  over  the  edge  of  the  world 
—  and  the  flakes  go  by  like  souls  —  millions  of  them  —  and 
all  —  I  think  lost  —  " 

Delia  crept  up  beside  him,  trembling  and  silent;  he  leaned 
his  stately  head  against  the  mullions  and  stared  out  on  to  the 
utter  dark;  the  drifting  snow  clung  to  the  vivid  velvet  of  his 
coat;  Delia  saw  his  diamonds  rise  and  fall  with  the  quickness 
of  his  breathing  and  felt  her  own  heart  beating  thickly;  a 
vague  sense  of  unreality  touched  her  like  the  chill  of  the  outer 
air  and  made  her  shiver. 

"Hark!"  said  Mr.  Wedderburn. 

The  bells  burst  out  again  and  the  sharpness  of  their  music 
was  a  pain;  the  snow  went  past  in  a  slow  rhythm  of  descent; 
Mr.  Wedderburn  turned  and  looked  at  Delia. 


138  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Ah  —  it  is  cold  —  shut  the  window,"  she  said,  and  she 
closed  her  eyes  and  swayed  as  if  she  fainted  inwardly. 

But  he  stood  motionless,  the  snow  drifting  over  him,  his 
hand  on  the  open  window;  the  mad,  reckless  blood  of  his 
doomed  race  rose  in  him ;  he  spent  his  life  in  trying  wild  means 
of  forgetting  his  great  unhappiness  and  here,  in  the  pale,  pure 
face  shrinking  away  from  him,  was  one  way  of  distraction; 
he  was  as  picturesque  in  his  thoughts  as  in  his  person  and  he 
imagined  her  soul,  simple,  white  as  the  snow  without,  standing 
before  him,  waiting  for  a  sign  to  flutter  into  his  hand ;  he 
smiled  gloomily;  she  was  not  the  first  to  respond  to  the  ob- 
vious attraction  of  his  flaunting  personality,  but  she  had  the 
novelty  of  a  singular,  gracious  freshness,  an  almost  childlike 
simplicity  of  demeanor;  it  was  exquisite  to  think  she  knew 
nothing  of  him. 

It  was  as  if  there  lay  a  way  through  her  soft  brown  eyes 
of  momentarily  escaping  from  himself. 

She  leaned  against  the  wall,  he  watching  her;  one  little  hand 
rested  on  the  paneling  beside  her,  her  white  throat  showed 
through  the  open  collar;  her  thick,  dull  hair  cast  trembling 
shadows  on  her  cheeks,  he  thought  it  a  pretty  color  and  was 
gloomily  pleased  that  he  could  still  admire  the  tint  of  a  wo- 
man's hair. 

"Delia,"  he  said  quietly. 

She  looked  up,  to  hear  this  man  speak  her  name  was  like 
seeing  it  flash  written  in  stars  across  the  sky;  she  shrank 
under  it  abashed  and  lifted  timid  eyes  that  to  his  bitter  wretch- 
edness seemed  soft  as  a  caress. 

He  smiled. 

"How  little  you  know  of  me !"  he  said. 

She  found  slow  words  to  answer  him. 


THE  LOVE  OF  DELIA  139 

"We  have  one  creed,  one  King,  one  aim,"  she  said.  "I 
desire  to  know  no  more  of  you,  sir. " 

"Delia, "  his  voice  fell  very  musically  low.  "If  you  knew  more 
of  me  —  say,  if  we  had  known  each  other  years  —  would 
you  find  it  possible  to  care  for  me  ?" 

She  stared,  dumb  and  scarlet,  the  terror  in  her  questioning 
eyes  was  the  finest  compliment  ever  paid  him:  he  smiled 
again  with  his  curious  Puritanical  haughtiness  as  if  even 
while  he  led  her  on,  he  despised  himself  and  her. 

"Would  you  find  me  a  man  easy  to  care  for?"  he  said 
again.  "I  wonder  —  for  I  —  " 

She  interrupted:  "Sir  —  I  do  not  think  you  have  failed 
to  find  those  who  would  answer  that  question." 

"Ah,  let  me  speak,"  he  said  gently,  "let  me  say  that  I  do 
find  you  made  to  be  loved  —  " 

"Sir!  do  you  usually  so  play  with  words  with  every  stran- 
ger?" she  cried. 

"Why,  never  before,"  he  smiled,  "and  are  we  strangers  — 
did  you  not  say  we  had  one  creed  —  one  King  —  one  aim  ?" 

"Ah,  I  do  think  you  palter  with  me!"  cried  Delia  with 
the  distress  of  one  drawn  and  netted  against  her  will.  "Mr. 
Caryl  is  late  —  " 

"I  would  he  were  later,"  said  Mr.  Wedderburn. 

"There  is  no  need  for  me  to  keep  you  company,"  she 
answered  faintly. 

"No  need  ?"  His  manner  flashed  into  the  overbearing.  "Not 
if  I  ask  you  to  stay  ?  " 

"I  will  go." 

"Why? "His  blue  eyes  lifted  imperiously.  "Miss  Delia  — 
do  you  dislike  me  ?" 

"I  do  not  know  you,"  she  faltered. 


140  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

His  face  darkened. 

"Ah,  yes,  you  know  me  as  much  in  these  moments  as  you 
ever  will  —  I  know  you  —  to  the  bottom  of  your  white 
heart." 

"Know  me  ?"  she  winced  and  blushed. 

"I  know  you  do  not  dislike  me,"  he  said,  studying  her 
curiously.  "Though  your  lips  may  say  so." 

She  answered  bravely. 

"Sir  —  I  have  not  taught  them  to  lie. " 

He  came  a  little  nearer  to  her  and  again  she  was  aware 
of  the  strong  perfume  he  carried,  overcoming,  stupefying  her. 

"So,"  he  said,  "you  cannot  lie,  and  if  I  said  —  ah  —  if  I 
said  —  "  He  broke  off  with  a  little  reckless  laugh ;  his  shadow 
was  upon  her;  his  presence  seemed  to  fill  the  world;  she  could 
no  more  escape  it  than  she  could  the  air  about  her;  she  could 
only  shrink  away,  trembling  against  the  wall. 

"If  I  said  —  I  love  you,"  he  asked  softly,  "you  who  can- 
not lie  —  would  say  —  some  day  I  might  love  you  —  would 
you  not?" 

"When  you  tell  me  that  in  seriousness,"  she  answered 
panting,  "in  seriousness  I  will  reply." 

His  beautiful  eyes  laughed. 

"Sophistry,"  he  said.  "Come,  is  life  so  long  that  we  may 
wait  years  to  say  what  in  one  moment  we  know  is  true  — 
we  have  not  met  for  nothing  —  by  Heaven,  no ! 

"Then  leave  it  at  that,"  faltered  Delia.  "Say  no  more  —  ah, 
for  pity!" 

With  that  gentle  little  cry  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  hand 
closed  over  her  and  that  he  held  her  soul,  simple  and  white, 
as  he  pictured  it  to  do  with  as  he  would. 

Thinking  so  he  gave  her  his  strange,  vacant  look,  while 


THE   LOVE  OF  DELIA  141 

she  crept  away  and  he  fell  back  into  the  gloom,  surveying 
her  sideways  coldly. 

The  pause,  terrible  to  Delia,  was  broken  by  the  abrupt 
entrance  of  Jerome  Caryl. 

"Ah,"  he  said;  "I  was  told  you  were  here."  He  glanced  at 
Mr.  Wedderburn  and  his  brows  went  up  ever  so  slightly. 

"The  password,  sir  ?"  he  asked,  his  hand  on  the  door. 

Mr.  Wedderburn  turned  and  looked  at  him:  "The  white 
rose  and  the  golden  lily  —  England  and  France,"  he  said 
slowly,  "and  here  is  my  commission."  He  took  from  his  pocket 
a  parchment  with  swinging  seals  and  laid  it  sweepingly  upon 
the  table. 

Jerome  Caryl  picked  it  up,  looked  at  it,  then  turned  to 
Sir  Perseus,  who  had  followed  him. 

"This  is  Mr.  Wedderburn,  the  King's  messenger,"  he  said 
gravely,  then  to  the  other:  "I  am  glad,  sir,  of  your  safe  ar- 
rival." 

"Good -even,"  said  Sir  Perseus,  then  glancing  the  stranger 
over:  "they  keep  you  fine  in  France,  sir,"  he  commented. 

Mr.  Wedderburn  smiled  disdainfully. 

"My  habit  is  not  the  matter  under  discussion,"  he  returned. 
"I  dress  as  fits  my  station  —  as  one  of  His  Majesty's 
friends. " 

Sir  Perseus  shrugged  his  shoulders;  Jerome  Caryl  seated 
himself  rather  wearily,  at  the  table,  with  a  gentle  smile  of 
greeting  to  Delia  and  spoke  to  the  King's  messenger: 

"The  papers  you  had  to  deliver  ?"  he  said.  "I  am  anxious, 
sir,  for  His  Majesty's  letter." 

Mr.  Wedderburn,  taking  the  seat  opposite,  began  the  un- 
doing of  a  packet  he  took  from  his  breast,  the  two  men  mean- 
while observed  each  other;  Jerome  Caryl  openly  with  a  calm 


142  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

frankness,  the  King's  messenger  covertly,  sideways  and  very 
keenly. 

Delia,  mechanically  closing  the  window  at  her  brother's 
bidding,  noticed  how  great  a  difference  between  the  two  at  the 
table  and  thought  that  Jerome  Caryl  had  faded  utterly  beside 
the  vivid  presence  of  the  other. 

Quiet,  contained,  grave  and  modest  in  manner,  his  calm 
melancholy  face  and  person  were  a  fine  contrast  to  Mr. 
Wedderburn  with  his  over-bold  handsomeness,  his  over-rich 
dress,  his  passionate  air  of  impatient  lordship,  his  too  empha- 
sized manner  of  haughtiness  and  power;  the  bearing  of  a 
tragedy  emperor,  gloomy  magnificence.  He  was  not  the  type 
of  man  to  appeal  to  Jerome  Caryl,  who  set  his  soft  mouth 
sternly  and  drooped  his  hazel  eyes  disdainfully  to  his  own 
delicate  hand  resting  on  the  table. 

Mr.  Wedderburn  swung  a  letter  across  the  table;  in  sil- 
ence Jerome  Caryl  opened  it,  and  the  King's  messenger 
gave  a  sudden  smile  at  Delia  across  the  length  of  the 
room. 

Sir  Perseus  glanced  from  one  to  another,  conscious  that 
the  silence  was  awkward  and  unaccountable.  "We  saw  my 
Lord  Berwick  to-day,"  he  remarked.  "He  has  had  a  messen- 
ger from  Crauford  in  Scotland." 

Delia  gave  a  little  start  as  of  one  suddenly  touched  in  his 
sleep. 

"Scotland  ?"  she  echoed. 

Mr.  Wedderburn  was  looking  at  her. 

"Heard  ye  anything  of  the  submission  of  the  clans  ?"  he 
asked. 

"We  heard,"  said  Sir  Perseus,  "that  every  clan  had  come  in 
save  the  Macdonalds  of  Glencoe. " 


THE  LOVE  OF  DELIA  143 

"Ah!"  said  Delia,  and  she  flushed  and  paled. 

"They  bear  such  a  hatred  to  the  Campbells,  nothing  will 
induce  them  to  follow  the  others,"  continued  her  brother, 
"and  —  poor  fools  —  there  is  no  one  to  trouble  to  warn  them 
—  doubtless  you  have  heard,  Mr.  Wedderburn,  how  we  have 
preserved  the  Highlands  to  His  Majesty  by  causing  them  to 
take  the  oaths  ? " 

"I  have  heard,"  was  the  answer,  "you  think  the  govern- 
ment will  be  vexed  —  disturbed  at  it  ?" 

Jerome  Caryl  looked  up  from  his  letter. 

"They  were  counting  on  settling  the  Highlands  forever," 
he  smiled.  "With  fire  and  sword  —  they  did  not  reckon  on 
more  than  half  taking  the  oaths  —  the  Master  of  Stair  and 
Breadalbane  intended  to  massacre  them  wholesale. " 

"You  have  clever  spies  to  have  discovered  that  much," 
said  Mr.  Wedderburn,  and  under  the  table  his  hand  was 
clutched  tightly  on  his  sword-hilt. 

"I  am  in  England  for  that,"  was  the  answer.  "To  serve 
His  Majesty.  I  have  defeated  the  usurper  on  that  well- 
planned  cruelty." 

"There  remain  the  Macdonalds,"  said  Mr.  Wedderburn 
slowly. 

Suddenly,  up  to  the  table,  came  Delia. 

"They  must  be  saved,"  she  said. 

Her  words  rang  in  a  little  pause ;  she  was  clasping  and  un- 
clasping her  hands  nervously,  she  turned  her  pure  eager 
face  to  Mr.  Wedderburn. 

"Sir,  you  will  help  us  save  them  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  and  laughed. 

"I  ?"  he  said  —  "I  ?  —  'tis  amusing  —  what  power  have 
I  to  save  these  Highland  savages  ?  " 


144  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

She  winced  and  turned  to  Jerome  Caryl. 

"You  promised  me,  Mr.  Caryl  —  " 

Sir  Perseus  interrupted : 

"Why,  Delia,  what  are  these  Macdonalds  to  you  ?" 

Jerome  Caryl  spared  her  an  answer:  "We  will  do  what  we 
can  —  "  he  said.  "And  they  know  the  risk  they  run  —  even 
yet  they  may  take  the  oaths." 

Delia  glanced  at  him  gratefully;  she  was  pale  and  her 
brown  eyes  gleamed  unnaturally  bright. 

"Good-night,  sirs,"  she  said  faintly. 

The  three  men  rose;  her  brother  kissed  her  cheek;  Jerome 
Caryl  came  to  the  door  with  her,  but  she  looked  past  him  to 
Mr.  Wedderburn,  who  stared  at  her  with  a  curious  little  smile; 
her  face  went  even  whiter;  the  door  fell  to  behind  her  and  they 
heard  her  light  footsteps  hurrying  up  the  stairs.  Jerome  Caryl 
returned  to  the  table. 

"Mr.  Wedderburn,"  he  said  formally,  "this  is  a  letter  from 
my  Lord  Middleton  —  signed  by  the  King,  charging  me 
to  collect  such  names  of  importance  as  I  can  and  send  the 
signature  back  by  you  as  a  means  of  encouraging  the  French 
to  make  a  descent  on  England  — 

"His  Majesty  expects  me  in  a  day  or  so  at  St.  Germains 
with  the  signatures,"  was  the  answer.  "I  assure  you  'tis  a 
matter  for  despatch,  for  King  Louis  will  not  act  without  these 
names  as  a  guarantee  of  a  rising  in  England  to  support  him 
should  his  men  land." 

"Lord  Middleton  also  says  that  you  will  be  the  bearer  of 
his  grace  of  Berwick's  despatches  and  a  full  account  of  the 
plot  for  His  Majesty's  perusal. " 

Mr.  Wedderburn  inclined  his  head. 

"Those  were  my  orders." 


THE  LOVE  OF  DELIA  145 

"A  dangerous  mission,"  put  in  Sir  Perseus.  "You  will  carry 
a  vast  responsibility  with  those  papers." 

"I  have  done  as  dangerous  in  the  service  of  the  King," 
said  Mr.  Wedderburn.  He  turned  to  Jerome  Caryl.  "Sir  — 
what  names  have  you  to  send  His  Majesty  ?" 

"News  from  all  sides  is  vastly  satisfactory,"  was  the  an- 
swer. "His  grace  of  Berwick  is  very  confident,  the  discontent 
is  huge  in  England ;  we  have  the  assurances  and  the  signatures 
of  Marlborough,  Godolphin,  Rochester,  Clarendon,  Lord 
Russell,  Leeds,  Cornbury,  Dartmouth,  Sidney  and  many 
bishops  and  lords  —  " 

"The  whole  of  the  Court  ye  might  say,"  cried  Mr.  Wedder- 
burn, with  a  curious  little  laugh.  "Tell  me,  are  there  any  who 
have  not  signed  ?" 

"Nottingham,"  said  Jerome  Caryl  with  a  smile.  "Car- 
stairs,  Sunderland,  Shrewsbury,  Devonshire,  Dorset  and  the 
Master  of  Stair  —  these  have  never  to  my  knowledge  meddled 
with  us  —  Nottingham,  because  he  is  a  narrow  pedant; 
Devonshire  and  Dorset  for  sheer  laziness;  Sunderland  be- 
cause we  would  not  have  him  in  our  ranks  —  Carstairs  and 
the  Master  of  Stair.  .  .  . " 

"For  honest  motives,  perchance,"  said  Mr.  Wedder- 
burn. 

"I  do  not  say  so  —  God  knows.  Carstairs  I  believe  is 
honest  —  the  Master  of  Stair  is  not  full  of  scruples.  I  think  he 
is  faithful  because  he  hates  us  bitterly  and  because  he  is  a 
man  of  one  view  —  he  is  sworn  to  the  Whigs  and  would,  I 
think,  sell  his  soul  for  them  —  if  it  is  still  on  the  market." 

"You  hate  him,"  remarked  Mr.  Wedderburn. 

"I  do  —  he  constantly  thwarts  me,  he  is  a  man  to  be  feared 
—  but  to  business,  Mr.  Wedderburn :  these  papers  you  are  to 


146  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

carry  to  France  are  with  his  grace  of   Berwick  —  give   me 
two  days  and  I  shall  have  them." 

Mr.  Wedderburn  rose: 

"I  will  call  again  the  day  after  to-morrow,  then,"  he  said, 
"and  start  immediately  afterwards  for  France." 

He  put  his  commission  back  into  his  pocket. 

"You  will  not  disappoint  me  ?"  he  asked.  "In  two  days  — 

"I  will  answer  for  it,  you  have  them  then,"  said  Jerome 
Caryl,  "where  are  you  staying  ?" 

"I  am  undecided,  but  any  message  addressed  to  'The  Blue 
Posts,'  Covent  Garden,  will  find  me." 

"I  will  remember  it." 

The  King's  messenger  put  on  his  hat  and  coat  in  silence; 
he  was  not  a  man  for  commonplaces,  and  his  haughty  man- 
ners prevented  them  in  others.  He  saluted  the  two  men  very 
abruptly  and  turned  from  the  room. 

Jerome  Caryl  made  no  attempt  to  accompany  him:  there 
was  a  quiet  dislike  in  his  stiff  bow.  As  the  door  closed,  he 
remarked  to  Sir  Perseus : 

"Middleton  is  crazed,  I  think,  to  trust  that  man  with  such 
Emission." 

"I  do  not  like  him,"  was  the  answer,  "but  he  may  be  very 
staunch." 

"He  knows  everything,"  said  Jerome  Caryl,  frowning. 
"And  his  credentials  are  such  that  I  must  trust  him  —  but 
I  doubt  his  discretion,  and  I  wish  Middleton  could  have  sent 
me  a  man  of  whom  I  knew  something. " 

As  Mr.  Wedderburn  was  crossing  the  dark,  outer  room  he 
felt  a  timid  touch  on  his  arm ;  some  one  fleet  and  noiseless  of 
foot  had  overtaken  him.  It  was  Delia  Featherstonehaugh,  — 
for  the  moment  he  had  utterly  forgotten  her. 


THE  LOVE  OF  DELIA  147 

"Would  you  do  me  a  favor  ?"  she  said  panting 

He  turned,  but  it  was  too  dark  to  see  her  face. 

"Why,  tell  it  me,"  he  answered. 

"I  want  you  to  help  me  save  the  Macdonalds  of  Glencoe  — 
I  have  —  a  reason." 

There  was  a  long  pause;  she  grew  frightened. 

"Won't  you  answer  ?"  she  said  piteously. 

"I  have  no  power,"  he  replied  sternly. 

"Ah,  yes,  as  much  as  any  of  them  —  and  I  am  afraid  the 
Macdonalds  —  afraid  of  —  "  she  paused. 

"Of  whom  ?" 

"The  Master  of  Stair,"  she  whispered. 

He  uttered  his  slight  reckless  laugh. 

"Content  ye  —  I  will  defend  ye  from  the  Master  of  Stair  — 
on  my  soul,  ye  are  a  sweet  thing  —  I  will  see  ye  next 
time." 

She  fell  back,  panting  into  the  dark  and  he  passed  on  into 
the  outer  room  where  a  man  was  busy  sorting  and  arranging 
Jacobite  pamphlets.  He  rose  to  open  the  door. 

"Those  are  lampoons  ye  write  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Wedder- 
burn. 

The  Jacobite  smiled: 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "I  do  not  write  them,  but 
they  are  lampoons. " 

"Against  whom  ?" 

"All  the  Whigs,  sir  —  one  in  particular. " 

Mr.  Wedderburn  held  the  open  door  in  his  hand ;  he  spoke 
over  his  shoulder : 

"The  Master  of  Stair  ?"  he  asked. 

The  Jacobite  answered  under  his  breath. 

"Truly  that  devil  —  the  Master  of  Stair." 


148  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

Mr.  Wedderburn's  blue  eyes  flashed  dark  and  fierce. 

"Be  careful,  sir,  how  ye  offend  the  devil,"  he  said,  and, 
banging  the  door  furiously  in  the  face  of  the  Jacobite,  strode 
off  down  the  street. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  MASTER'S  WIFE 

LATE  that  evening  the  Master  of  Stair  entered  his 
mansion  in  St.  James's  Square  and  paessd  through 
the  great  empty  house  to  the  library  at  the  back. 
This  room  was  vast,  handsomely  furnished  and 
gloomy,  well-lit  by  hanging  lamps  and  a  great  fire  on  the 
massive  hearth;  the  walls  were  lined  with  books,  the  ceiling 
domed  and  painted  with  dark  figures  that  appeared  to 
mount  into  endless  space;  the  chimneypiece,  wreathed  with 
heavy  garlands  of  wooden  flowers,  supported  a  huge  branched 
silver  stand  filled  with  candles  that  were  reflected  in  the  mir- 
ror behind.  Dull  red  velvet  curtains  draped  the  long  windows, 
and  a  heavy  pile  carpet  of  the  same  color  covered  the  floor. 
In  the  center  of  the  wall,  facing  the  door,  stood  a  large  black 
oak  desk  with  a  bureau  either  side;  on  it  lay  papers  and 
books  with  two  grim  bronze  busts,  labeled  "Cato"  and  "So- 
lon" in  lettering  that  glittered  somberly;  one  of  the  lamps 
hung  immediately  over  the  desk  and  threw  a  strong  light 
down  on  the  man  who  sat  there  reading  a  faded  calf-bound 
volume. 

He  was  quietly  dressed  in  dark  brown,  and  his  face,  wrink- 
led, as  a  walnut  shell,  was  almost  hidden  by  the  ringlets  of  his 
enormous  periwig;  he  was  thin  and  bent,  sixty  of  sixty-five 
and  had  an  indescribable  air  of  ease  and  comfort,  as  if  he  was 
in  his  element  and  vastly  enjoying  himself. 

149 


150  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

The  Master  of  Stair  paused  oil  the  threshold  and  glanced 
round  the  somber  room. 

"Good-evening,  my  lord,"  he  said. 

The  man  at  the  desk  looked  up,  half-reluctantly. 

"What  o'clock  is  it,  John  ?"  he  asked. 

"Between  twelve  and  one,"  answered  the  Master  of  Stair. 
"I  am  later,  my  lord,  than  I  meant  to  be."  He  came  into  the 
room  as  he  spoke,  and  seated  himself  on  one  of  the  stiff-backed 
chairs  by  the  fire. 

"Where  is  Lady  Dalrymple  ?"  he  asked  drearily. 

Viscount  Stair  shut  his  book  and  so  turned  in  his  chair 
that  he  faced  his  son. 

"Gone  to  the  ball  at  Kensington,"  he  answered  dryly, 
"accompanied  by  Tom  Wharton." 

"Why  did  you  permit  it?"  flashed  the  Master  of  Stair. 

The  father  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You  must  manage  your  own  wife,  John,"  he  answered. 
"Everybody  is  at  the  ball.  Tom  Wharton  is  as  good  as  an- 
other." 

Sir  John  interrupted  him: 

"Tom  Wharton  is  the  greatest  rake  in  England,"  he  said. 
"I  do  not  choose  to  have  him  across  my  threshold  —  when  I 
returned  from  Romney  this  morning  you  told  me  Lady  Dal- 
rymple was  at  the  Toyshop  with  him  —  now  you  tell  me  they 
have  gone  to  the  ball  together. " 

"Why  didn't  you  go  yourself  ?"  asked  the  Viscount  calmly. 
"Who  do  you  think  is  to  take  her  about  ?  —  she  must  be  seen 
at  Court  sometimes." 

"I  was  better  employed,"  answered  the  Master.  "You  know 

well  enough,  my  lord,  that  I  have  it  in  hand  to  crush  this  rising 

—  this  plot  —  I  am  but  now  from  one  of  these  Jacobite  dens 


THE  MASTER'S  WIFE  151 

where  I  have  been  aping  the  part  of  King's  messenger  from 
France." 

"In  those  clothes  ?"  asked  his  father  sarcastically. 

The  Master  of  Stair  answered  impatiently:  "I  forgot  them. 
I  had  been  dining  with  Montague,  and  went  straight  on  to  the 
meeting-place. " 

Viscount  Stair  gave  an  unpleasant  smile. 

"Well,"  he  said  calmly,  "you  have  a  fine  head,  John,  you 
make  a  good  many  slips  —  a  number  of  false  steps.  Take  care 
the  last  isn't  up  Tower  Hill."  He  spoke  with  an  air  of  ab- 
straction, as  if,  himself  indifferent  to  everything,  he  could  still 
feel  cynically  amused  at  the  blunders  of  others. 

His  son  gave  him  an  angry  glance. 

"I  have  not  deserved  this,  my  lord;  I  have  kept  inside  the 
law  during  many  storms,  and  now  I  am  the  law. " 

The  Viscount  leaned  a  little  forward;  as  he  moved  it  was 
noticeable  that  his  neck  was  wry,  a  defect  that  gave  him  the 
appearance  of  leering  over  his  shoulder  as  if  he  listened  to 
some  one  who  whispered  there  at  his  ear. 

"/  have  kept  you  inside  the  law,"  he  said.  "My  advice  has 
guided  you  so  far  —  you  reckless  fool  if  you  had  asked  me  you 
had  not  gone  among  conspirators  in  that  habit. " 

He  pointed  mockingly  at  the  gorgeous  dress  of  his  son  whose 
anger  rose  the  more  at  his  tone. 

"Sir,"  he  said.  "I  have  achieved  my  purpose  for  all  I  am 
such  a  fool  —  they  were  deceived." 

"Being  bigger  fools,"  commented  the  Viscount. 

"I  say,  I  am  at  the  bottom  of  their  plot,"  flashed  the  Master. 
°In  two  days'  time  I  shall  have  every  detail  to  put  before  the 
King." 

The  Viscount  regarded  him  unmoved. 


152  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Go  warily,"  he  said,  and  his  cunning  old  face  wrinkled 
into  an  unfathomable  smile.  "You  stand  dangerously  high, 
John,  and  you  are  dangerously  reckless,  John." 

"And  you,  my  lord  ?"  demanded  the  Master. 

"I  ?  I  do  not  meddle  in  your  schemes,  my  son.  I  am  a  safe 
spectator  —  and  I  find  it  amusing  —  sometimes  —  now  and 
then  it  is  tiresome  —  your  wife  is  tiresome,  John." 

"You  married  me  to  her,"  cried  the  Master  bitterly.  "For 
God's  sake,  sir,  remember  that  you  thrust  her  on  me  before 
I  was  well  out  of  petticoats. " 

The  Viscount  frowned. 

"I  considered  a  Dalrymple  able  to  manage  a  woman,"  he 
said  dryly.  "And  the  marriage  was  very  politic. " 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,  my  lord,"  answered  the  Master  passion- 
ately. "But  do  not  blame  me  for  a  woman  not  of  my  choosing. " 

The  father  yawned.  "I  merely  commented  that  she  was 
tiresome,"  he  said.  "And  so  are  you  at  times  —  but  she  —  is 
quite  insufferable.  I  assure  you  this  house  with  no  other 
occupant  but  that  sniveling  woman  is  a  miserable  place.  I 
cannot  write  here,  I  shall  have  my  town  house  refurnished." 

The  Master  of  Stair  rose. 

"I  do  not  need  you,  my  lord,"  he  said,  still  in  that  tone  of 
passionate  bitterness,  "to  point  out  the  wretchedness  of  my 
home  —  it  is  a  fact  obvious  enough,  and  by  God  you  should 
not  fling  it  in  my  face.  I  cannot  remember  that  you  ever,  by 
one  word,  tried  to  mend  the  unhappiness  — " 

"And  I,"  returned  the  Viscount,  "cannot  remember  ever 
saying  I  had  —  it  is  your  life"  —  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  — 
"I  have  managed  my  own  —  now  I  only  ask  to  be  left  in  peace. 
I  am  not  fitted  for  the  part  of  mentor  and  never  essayed  to 
fill  it." 


THE  MASTER'S  WIFE  153 

The  Master  of  Stair  laughed. 

"Peace !"  he  echoed  with  wild  eyes  on  his  father.  "Did  your 
lordship  sow  peace  that  you  expect  to  reap  it  ?  Not  in  me,  at 
least,  not  in  me  or  mine  I" 

The  Viscount  had  picked  up  his  book  again. 

"Where  is  the  third  volume  of  Cicero  ?"  he  said.  "I  could 
not  find  it.  You  have  the  library  of  a  careless  man." 

"The  servants  are  at  your  lordship's  service,"  answered  the 
Master  and  turned  on  his  heel,  chafing. 

"You  forget,"  remarked  his  father,  "it  is  New  Year's  Eve, 
the  season  I  believe  of  festivities,  good -will  and  other  such 
antique  pleasantries,  and  I  understand  the  servants  are  mostly 
abroad." 

The  Master  gave  a  wild  look  round  the  gloomy  room. 

"New  Year's  Eve!  We  are  spending  it  in  an  exemplary 
way!"  he  cried.  "This  place  looks  like  good- will  and  festivity, 
does  it  not  ?  How  many  homes  look  as  gloomy  as  this  to- 
night!" 

"Very  few,  I  should  imagine,"  said  the  Viscount.  "Will  you 
bring  me  that  book  if  you  have  it  ?" 

The  Master  gave  him  a  bitter  glance;  before  he  could  an- 
swer the  entrance  curtain  was  drawn  aside  and  a  lady  entered, 
a  gentleman  behind  her. 

She  was  wrapped  in  a  long  purple  cloak,  the  hood  drawn 
over  her  head. 

At  sight  of  the  Master  of  Stair  she  hesitated,  and  the  man 
behind,  slipping  past  her,  came  into  the  center  of  the  room. 

He  was  blond,  good-humored,  elegant;  he  smiled  delight- 
fully as  he  bowed  to  the  silent  figure  by  the  hearth. 

"Good-even,  Sir  John,"  he  said.  "I  have  brought  my  lady 
back  from  Kensington. " 


154  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Good-even  Mr.  Wharton,"  answered  the  Master,  staring 
past  him. 

The  atmosphere  was  decidedly  oppressive;  the  Viscount 
gave  a  malicious  smile.  Lady  Dalrymple  came  forward  in  a 
heavy  silence,  but  Tom  Wharton  knew  no  such  word  as  em- 
barrassment he  smiled  still  more  good-humoredly. 

"  I  was  not  aware  Sir  John  had  returned,"  he  said,  address- 
ing the  Viscount. 

"So  I  supposed  when  I  saw  you  enter,"  said  the  Master 
haughtily.  "Good-night,  Mr.  Wharton." 

Tom  Wharton  bowed. 

"I  take  my  —  dismissal,"  he  smiled.  "I  shall  hope  to  see  you 
at  Kensington,  Sir  John  —  au  rev&ir,  my  lady." 

She  made  a  slight  inclination  of  her  head. 

"Good-night,  my  lord."  Tom  Wharton 's  face  was  dimpled 
with  the  most  mirthful  of  smiles;  he  bowed  himself  out  ex- 
quisitely, and  when  the  door  closed  on  him  the  room  seemed 
the  gloomier  by  contrast. 

The  silence  remained  unbroken;  the  Viscount  was  making 
notes  on  the  margin  of  his  book;  the  Master  stood  with  his 
back  to  his  wife  and  stared  into  the  fire;  she  slowly  flung  her 
cloak  off  with  no  attempt  at  speech. 

She  was  a  perfect  type  of  Lely's  heroines:  he  had  painted 
her  more  than  once  and  had  delighted  in  her  blonde  loveliness, 
her  small  features,  her  great  languishing  blue  eyes,  her  soft 
foolish  mouth,  the  pale  yellow  hair  smooth  as  satin  in  its  great 
curls,  the  white  shoulders  and  rosy  fingers,  the  full  throat  and 
entrancing  little  dimple  in  her  chin;  she  should  now  have 
been  at  the  height  of  her  beauty,  but  unhappiness  had  worn 
her  delicate  face,  dimmed  her  eyes  and  dragged  her  mouth, 
marring  the  whole  with  an  expression  of  fretful  misery. 


THE  MASTER'S  WIFE  155 

Still,  to-night  rouge,  powder  and  patches  had  made  amends 
for  tears;  she  was  splendidly  dressed  in  flowing  white  satin, 
hung  about  with  pearls,  and  in  this  soft  light  no  one  could 
have  detected  a  flaw  in  her  beauty,  as  she  sat  droopingly,  with 
her  hands  in  her  lap. 

The  Master  of  Stair  turned  at  last. 

"Why  did  you  go  with  Mr.  Wharton  ?"  he  demanded.  "I 
desired  you  not  to  continue  this  acquaintance." 

"I  told  you  when  I  wrote,"  she  began. 

He  interrupted  impatiently.  "Do  you  think  I  have  time  to 
read  your  letters  ?  You  knew  my  wishes  —  and  when  I  re- 
turned this  morning  I  heard  that  you  were  with  Mr.  Wharton 
at  the  Toyshop  —  on  my  soul  —  a  pretty  epitome  of  your  life, 
I  think !  —  with  Tom  Wharton  at  a  Toyshop !" 

"Everybody  goes  to  them,"  she  answered  weakly,  "I  must 
do  something  —  this  house  is  unendurable. " 

"You  do  not  contribute  to  its  gaiety,"  he  said  fiercely. 

She  dropped  her  blonde  head  into  her  hands  and  broke  into 
crying.  He  turned  his  back  on  her  again. 

"I  am  so  miserable,"  she  sobbed,  "so  desolate.  Oh,  I  think 
my  heart  is  broken." 

"You  have  remarked  it  before,"  said  her  husband  bitterly. 

She  sobbed  the  louder,  crushing  her  handkerchief  to  her 
eyes.  "You  never  think  of  me,"  she  wailed.  "It's  killing  me  — 
I  think  —  but  you  don't  care  —  no  one  does.  I  am  utterly 
alone  —  since  —  Harry  —  died." 

At  the  mention  of  his  dead  son,  Sir  John  swung  round  on 
her 

"On  my  soul,  madam,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "I  will  not  hear 
you  on  that  subject." 

She  lifted  blurred  eyes.  "No,"  she  panted,  "but  you  can't 


156  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

—  make  me  —  forgive  —  you  can't  take  away  the  —  empty 
house  —  or  —  my  God !  —  the  pain  in  my  heart !" 

"Have  the  other  boy  back,"  he  flung  out,  "I  am  willing." 

"No,  no,"  she  shrieked.  "Harry's  murderer  —  I  will  never 
see  him  again.  I  wish  he  was  dead  —  I  wish  I  was  dead !" 

She  burst  into  uncontrolled  hysterical  sobs  and  buried  her 
face  in  the  chair  cushions.  Her  husband's  face  darkened 
furiously;  he  moved  away  from  her,  his  teeth  in  his  lip.  The 
Viscount  looked  up  from  his  desk. 

"If  you  have  not  a  Cicero,"  he  said,  "perhaps  you  have 
an  Epictetus  ?  This  allusion  I  must  verify. " 

The  Master  of  Stair  walked  impatiently  to  the  shelves  and 
finding  a  volume  gave  it  to  his  father,  then  he  turned  to  his 
wife. 

"Madam,  cease  that  wailing,"  he  said.  "You  will  try  me 
beyond  endurance. " 

She  made  a  show  of  stifling  her  sobs,  and  rose,  dabbing  at 
her  eyes;  her  fair  hair  and  her  white  dress  seemed  to  gather 
all  the  light  in  the  room ;  she  gleamed  from  head  to  foot. 

"You  take  no  thought  of  me,"  she  said  wretchedly.  "Neither 
you  nor  my  lord  there  seem  to  think  —  there  —  is  any  pity 
to  be  felt  for  —  me. "  She  gave  a  bitter  glance  toward  the 
placid  figure  of  the  Viscount.  "He  does  not  care,"  she  panted, 
"nor  do  you  —  what  have  I  done  to  be  so  punished  ?"  She 
turned  her  tear-blurred  face  to  her  husband.  "I  do  not  come 
of  a  cursed  family,"  she  said  hoarsely.  "Why  should  I  be 
dragged  into  your  evil  fortunes  ?  Why  should  I  pay  for  your 
wicked  blood,  my  God,  why  ?" 

She  clasped  her  hands  passionately  in  the  intensity  of  the 
revolt  of  a  weak  thing;  her  eyes  were  unnaturedly  dilated, 
her  bosom  rose  and  fell  with  her  struggling  breath;  terror  and 


THE  MASTER'S  WIFE  157 

aversion  were  expressed  in  every  line  of  her  shrinking  figure. 

"I  have  done  nothing  that  my  children  should  be  cursed," 
she  said  wildly.  "It  is  you  —  you  — " 

The  Master  of  Stair  interrupted  her. 

"Take  care,"  he  said,  very  white.  "You  utter  the  unfor- 
givable — " 

"I  shall  not  ask  you  to  forgive,"  she  answered.  "I  do  not 
want  your  favor  —  you  and  your  blighted  race  have  crazed 
me  —  I  will  say  it  —  I  am  haunted  —  day  and  night  —  and 
it  is  unjust."  Her  voice  was  shrill  and  tortured.  "It  is  unjust 
that  I  should  so  pay  because  I  was  foolish  and  very  young  — 
and  married  you.  God  knows  I  never  loved  you !" 

Her  words  rang  cruelly  round  the  vast  room  and  seemed  to 
echo  through  the  pause  that  followed ;  the  only  sound  was  the 
rustle  of  the  leaves  of  the  Viscount's  book  as  he  turned  them 
and  the  scratch  of  his  pen  as  he  made  a  note;  the  Master  of 
Stair  looked  sternly  before  him,  his  face  hardened  to  a  great 
bitterness. 

Lady  Dalrymple  shuddered;  the  reaction  of  her  passion 
came  in  the  heavy  tears  that  rolled  down  her  face.  With  a 
childish  gesture  she  put  up  the  back  of  her  hand  to  hide  them, 
and  turned  miserably  away  across  the  room. 

Down  the  whole  gloomy  length  she  went  slowly  with  a 
weary  air  of  hopelessness;  the  Viscount  looked  up  from  his 
book,  watched  her  and  when  the  door  closed  on  her  gave  a 
little  sigh  of  relief. 

"She  gets  onto  a  note  very  irritating  to  the  nerves,"  he  re- 
marked. "It  is  astonishing  how  few  women  will  learn  to  use 
their  words  with  effect  —  they  throw  at  you  all  they  can  think 
of  —  then  burst  into  tears  —  which  is  neither  logical  nor 
pleasing. " 


158  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

The  Master  of  Stair  made  no  answer;  at  his  feet  was  a  beau- 
tiful pink  rose  his  wife  had  dropped ;  he  picked  it  up  and  flung 
it  into  the  fire. 

The  Viscount  shut  his  book  and  turned  with  a  yawn. 

"I  saw  the  King  to-day,"  he  said.  "He  asked  where  you 
were  —  Argyll  and  Breadalbane  are  desirous  to  see  you  about 
these  Highlands." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Master  gloomily.  "But  the  damned  thieves 
have  all  come  in  except  the  Macdonalds  of  Glencoe  —  which 
minds  me.  I  should  send  those  letters  to-night  —  I  have  the 
maps  of  Glencoe.  The  pass  of  Rannoch  must  be  secured.  The 
Laird  of  Weem  must  close  Strath  Tay  —  then  with  Breadal- 
bane one  side,  Argyll  the  other  —  I  think  I  have  the  villains. " 

The  Viscount  drew  a  paper  out  of  his  desk. 

"I  had  the  report  from  Scotland  this  morning,"  he  said 
composedly.  "The  Macdonalds  have  taken  the  oath." 

The  Master  of  Stair  turned,  incredulous,  furious. 

"Taken  the  oath !"  he  cried. 

"Yes."  His  father  twisted  his  wry  neck  over  the  paper.  "So 
the  commander  of  the  forces  says. " 

Sir  John  stood  silent  a  moment;  when  he  spoke  it  was  in  a 
quiet  tone. 

"It  need  make  no  difference  —  I  have  vowed  to  make  an 
example  of  those  Glencoe  men  and  will  do  it. " 

The  Viscount  nodded. 

"As  Lord  President  of  the  Court  of  Session  I  could  suppress 
this,"  he  said.  "And  you  as  Prime  Minister  for  Scotland  should 
t>e  able  to  accomplish  the  rest. " 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Master.  "I  must  write  to  Hill  who 
commands  in  Fort  William  —  he  must  be  removed  —  the 
second  in  command,  Hamilton,  is  an  able  man." 


THE  MASTER'S  WIFE  159 

"But  first  you  must  see  Breadalbane,"  said  the  Viscount. 
"Better  go  carefully. " 

Sir  John  lifted  his  shoulders  with  a  magnificent  gesture  of 
disregard. 

"I  have  put  myself  above  caution,  my  lord,"  he  said.  "Give 
me  the  letter  —  "  He  took  it  eagerly  from  his  father.  "This 
must  be  shown  to  the  King  ?"  he  questioned. 

"Yes." 

"Lend  me  your  pen,  my  lord. " 

The  Viscount  handed  him  the  quill,  and  Sir  John  dashed  it 
through  the  passage  relating  to  the  Macdonalds. 

"If  it  become  necessary  to  show  this  paper  your  lordship 
can  do  so, "  he  said.  "And  I  will  do  the  same  for  the  minutes 
that  are  to  go  before  the  Council  at  Edinburgh. " 

His  father  laughed. 

"A  bold  way  of  handling  difficulties,  John,"  he  com- 
mented. 

"It  needs  boldness  to  deal  with  these  cursed  Jacks,"  an- 
swered the  Master  fiercely.  "I  am  going  to  teach  them  a  lesson 
this  time  —  they  have  defied  us  and  laughed  at  us  long  enough. 
This  race  of  thieves  goes  —  utterly. " 

The  Viscount  suddenly  rose  with  a  little  sound  of  warning. 

Sir  John  turned. 

Close  behind  them  stood  Lady  Dalrymple. 

She  saw  by  their  faces  their  thought,  and  drew  herself  to- 
gether defiantly.  "I  was  not  spying,"  she  cried  feverishly. 
"You  did  not  hear  me  enter. " 

"You  were  remarkably  quiet,  madam,"  remarked  the  Vis- 
count dryly. 

She  gave  him  a  frightened  look  and  in  a  strained  silence 
crossed  to  the  hearth. 


160  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"I  dropped  a  flower,"  she  said  faintly.  "I  came  back  for 
that." 

She  looked  along  the  floor  and  in  the  chair. 

"Do  not  trouble,  madam,"  said  her  husband,  watching  her. 
"I  make  no  doubt  Mr.  Wharton's  hothouses  can  supply  you 
with  others. " 

Lady  Dalrymple  lifted  her  head,  and  stared  at  him  with 
parted  lips  and  flushed  face,  and  a  curious  little  movement  of 
her  hand  like  horror. 

"The  Queen  gave  it  to  me  for  Harry's  grave,"  she  said 
simply. 

The  Master  of  Stair  flushed  and  started  as  if  from  a  blow. 

"You  have  burnt  it  ?"  asked  Lady  Dalrymple,  with  a  glance 
at  the  fire. 

The  silence  answered  her. 

"Well,  well,"  she  said  desperately,  "I  suppose  you  do  not 
care  that  his  little  grave  should  go  bare  —  only  —  to-morrow 
was  his  birthday  —  good-night,  sir. " 

She  went  quietly  out  of  the  room. 

The  Viscount  glanced  sideways  at  his  son's  face,  and  was 
silent. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  CURSE  OF  THE  DALRYMPLES 

THE   Earl  of  Breadalbane  smiled  into  the  gloomy 
face  of  the  Master  of  Stair. 
"They  hav'na'  taken  the  oaths,"  he  said.  "I'm  no' 
likely  to  be  deceived.  I  have  clear  reports  sent  by 
Glenlyon  —  and  certainly  the  Macdonalds  couldna'  take  the 
oaths  without  his  knowledge. "  He  glanced  round  on  the  three 
men  assembled  in  the  massive  drawing-room  of  the  Dal- 
rymples;  the  Viscount,  cool  and  immovable  as  himself;  Argyll, 
restless  and  ill  at  ease,  the  Master  of  Stair,  dark  and  impatient. 

"So  we  may  proceed,"  he  continued,  "without  any  fear  o* 
offending  the  law. " 

"My  lord,"  said  the  Master  of  Stair,  "we  should  have  pro- 
ceeded in  any  case.  I  have  struck  out  the  statement  that  the 
Macdonalds  took  the  oath. " 

Argyll  looked  up. 

"  'Tis  a  dangerous  method,  Sir  John,"  he  said  nervously. 
"It  would  look  ugly  if  it  ever  came  to  light,  ye  ken,  and  there 
are  a  plenty  of  people  would  gladly  turn  it  about  to  work  our 
ruin." 

Breadalbane  answered: 

"Hav'na'  I  said,  cousin,  that  they  ha*  no'  come  in  ?  There- 
fore we  are  in  our  just  rights  to  be  punishing  avowed 
traitors. " 

"My  Lord  Argyll, "  smiled  the  Viscount,  "you  need  not  fear 

161 


162  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

to  embark  on  an  enterprise  that  your  cousin's  caution  deems 
safe." 

Argyll,  detecting  the  sneer,  grew  peevish. 

"Aweel,"  he  replied,  "an'  the  enterprise  is  so  safe  and  law- 
ful show  me  the  warrant  for  it,  my  lords."  The  Master  of 
Stair  turned  impatiently  in  his  chair. 

"I  will  be  your  warrant,  my  lord,"  he  said.  "I  am  the  first 
minister  in  Scotland.  I  take  the  responsibility." 

"Ay  ?"  answered  Argyll.  "But  you  are  not  so  high,  Sir  John, 
that  you  cannot  fall.  And  I'll  no'  mix  in  this  without  other 
safeguard. " 

"What?"  demanded  the  Master  haughtily. 

"The  King's  command." 

"The  King's  command  is  in  his  proclamation  that  all 
clans  not  taking  the  oaths  are  to  be  dealt  with  by  the  law," 
answered  the  Master. 

"Aweel,"  said  Argyll  shrewdly,  "then  it  should  be  no 
trouble  to  ye,  Sir  John,  to  obtain  a  warrant  from  His  Ma- 
jesty for  the  destruction  o'  the  Macdonalds  o'  Glencoe." 

"It  is  not  needful,"  frowned  Sir  John. 

But  the  Viscount  leaned  forward  across  the  table. 

"I  think  the  King's  consent  is  needful,"  he  said;  he  glanced 
at  Breadalbane,  whose  light  eyes  rested  very  disdainfully  on 
his  cousin.  "What  do  you  think,  my  lord  ?" 

"As  they  hav'na'  taken  the  oaths,"  answered  Breadalbane, 
"we  are  within  the  law — yet  I'm  no'  saying  that  precautions 
are  onnecessary. " 

"Unnecessary  or  not  I'll  no'  move  without  the  King's 
name,"  said  Argyll  stubbornly. 

"My  lord,  I  will  obtain  it,"  flashed  the  Master  of  Stair. 
"Consider  it  done." 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  DALRYMPLES  163 

His  father  lifted  his  brows. 

"Are  you  so  certain  of  His  Majesty  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  certain  of  myself,"  answered  Sir  John  superbly. 
"I  shall,  my  lord,  obtain  the  King's  consent. " 

"At  the  audience  I  had  when  I  made  my  report,"  said 
Breadalbane,  "it  looked  to  me  that  the  King  kenned  little 
o'  Scotland.  He  seemed  glad  that  so  many  of  the  clans  had 
come  in  —  and  opposed  to  violence  in  dealing  wi'  the  Hie- 
lands;  but  wi'  his  cough  and  his  strange  English  I  kenned 
little  enow  o'  what  he  said.  I  wasna'  thinking  ower  muckle 
of  him  till  when  I  took  my  leave,  I  discovered  then  his  wits 
were  where  they  should  be." 

"What  did  he  say  ?"  asked  Argyll,  half -anxiously. 

Breadalbane  wore  an  amused  smile. 

"He  gave  me  a  straight  look,  'I'm  blithe  to  hae  seen  you,' 
he  said  dryly,  'for  the  appearance  o'  your  lordship  is  a  sure 
sign  o'  the  winning  cause  and  as  lang  as  I  see  you  I  ken  I'm 
prosperous. ' ' 

"Then  he  is  no'  so  bad  at  character  reading,"  commented 
Argyll. 

The  Viscount  and  Breadalbane  laughed,  but  the  Master 
of  Stair  peremptorily  cut  them  short: 

"My  lords,  let  us  understand  each  other  plainly.  Once  the 
thing  is  resolved  upon,  let  it  be  swift  and  sudden  —  better 
to  leave  it  alone  than  bungle  it." 

"  'Tis  the  only  way,"  said  Breadalbane.  "No  enemy  will 
enter  Glencoe  save  by  craft. " 

"I  did  not  say  craft,  my  lord,"  cried  the  Master  of  Stair. 
"I  said  let  it  be  done  swiftly  and  suddenly  —  I  will  send  a 
regiment  from  Fort  William  to  sweep  Glencoe  clear  of  these 
bandits  —  another  to  stop  the  passes  —  you  and  my  Lord 


164  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

Argyll  shall  hem  them  in  —  (yet  I  hope  there  will  be  no 
fugitives)  —  and  so  the  thing  is  done.  The  name  of  Mac- 
donald  will  be  cleared  from  Argyllshire  and  Invernes- 
shire." 

Breadal bane's  pale  eyes  sparkled. 

"Will  you  trust  the  commander  of  Fort  William  ?"  he 
asked. 

"No  —  the  second  in  command,  Hamilton  —  a  man  anx- 
ious to  make  his  way.  He  will  serve  our  purpose.  The  sol- 
diers must  be  Campbells  —  you  will  have  a  man,  my  lord, 
fitted  to  lead  them." 

"Glenlyon,"  said  Breadalbane. 

"You  will  know  best.  There  must  be  no  prisoners. " 

"But  the  women  and  children,  Sir  John  ?"  asked  Argyll. 
"Ye  can  transport  them  to  the  colonies  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  Master  of  Stair,  "no.  It  shall  be  fire  and 
sword  through  Glencoe.  I  will  not  have  one  left  alive.  I  am 
glad  it  is  winter;  now  is  the  time  to  maul  the  wretches.  Those 
who  fly  into  the  hills  will  this  weather  perish." 

Then  fell  a  little  silence,  broken  by  Argyll. 

"The  world  will  call  this  a  massacre,  Sir  John. " 

"Maybe,  my  lord,"  answered  the  Master  of  Stair. 

"Do  ye  repent,  cousin  ?"  flashed  Breadalbane. 

"No,"  answered  Argyll  uneasily.  "These  Macdonalds 
have  been  a  plague-spot  in  our  ands  for  lang  enow  —  but — 

"We  have  done  with  'buts' !  "  cried  Sir  John.  "I  am  re- 
solved these  thieves  shall  go  and  they  go.  The  government 
is  strong  enough  to  bear  the  blame  —  and  you  shall  have  the 
King's  warrant,  my  Lord  Argyll." 

He  rose  and  touched  the  bell. 

al  will  show  you  the  plan  I  have  made  of  Glencoe,"  he 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  DALRYMPLES          165 

continued,  "whereby  —  securing  the  pass  of  Rannoch  —  we 
cut  off  every  retreat. " 

He  came  back  to  his  seat,  frowning. 

"But  I  am  sorry  Keppoch  and  Glengarry  are  safe,"  he 
added. 

"Weel,  they're  no*  so  bad  as  the  Macdonalds,"  returned 
Breadalbane. 

"Pardon  me,  my  lord;  you  mean  they  do  not  cumber  your 
estates,  or  thieve  your  cattle  —  "  answered  the  Master. 
"But  they  prey  on  Scotland  as  much  as  do  the  Macdonalds. " 

The  secretary  entered: 

"Bring  me  those  maps  of   the  Highlands,"  said  Sir  John. 

Argyll  drummed  his  fingers  on  the  table;  his  eyes  traveled 
uneasily  round  the  gorgeous  flamboyant  room,  in  an  attempt 
to  avoid  the  cold  glance  of  his  cousin  opposite. 

"The  Jacobites  will  try  to  warn  the  Macdonalds,"  he  said. 

"They  will  not  know  that  we  have  determined  on  sever- 
ity," answered  Sir  John.  "Doubtless  they  consider  the 
Macdonalds  came  in  with  the  rest." 

"And  if  they  do  not,"  smiled  the  Viscount,  "I  think  few 
Jacobites  would  be  devoted  enough  to  journey  in  this  weather 
to  the  Highlands  with  a  warning." 

"No,"  answered  his  son.  "I  think  the  Jacobites  are  other- 
wise employed.  They  have  tha  tin  hand  which  will  ruin  them. " 

"A  plot  ? "  questioned  Breadalbane  calmly. 

Sir  John's  blue  eyes  narrowed  unpleasantly. 

"Naturally,  my  lord  —  they  do  nothing  else.  But  I  have 
the  threads  of  this  in  my  hands." 

Argyll  began  biting  his  forefinger  nervously,  when  the  Mas- 
ter's glance  fell  on  him  he  obviously  flushed,  but  his  cousin's 
delicate  face  was  unmoved. 


166  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Another  Bedloe  affair,  Sir  John  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,  my  lord.  There  are  great  names  in  it  —  the  greatest. 
In  a  few  days  I  hope  to  lay  them  before  the  King. " 

Melville  had  brought  him  the  maps;  he  began  to  lay  them 
out  on  the  table;  Argyll  gave  him  a  covert  look. 

"See,  my  lord,"  said  Sir  John,  and  he  handed  a  paper 
to  Breadalbane.  "Is  not  this  correct  ?"  And  as  he  spoke 
he  leaned  forward  eagerly  and  traced  with  his  pen  the  route 
Hamilton  should  take  from  Fort  William  to  Glencoe. 

Argyll  pushed  his  chair  back  from  the  table,  withdrawing 
himself  from  the  discussion. 

"We're  no'  needed,"  he  said,  with  an  uneasy  smile  at  the 
Viscount,  and  a  motion  toward  the  Master  and  Breadalbane. 
Viscount  Stair  lifted  his  shoulders. 

"  'Tis  certainly  as  wearisome  as  a  Parliament  sitting," 
he  answered  as  he  rose.  "John,  you  must  arrange  the  details 
of  this  charming  little  affair  with  my  Lord  Breadalbane,  who 
seems  to  be  in  sympathy  with  you  —  we're  even  tired 
of  it." 

The  Master  flashed  the  angry  glance  his  father's  mockery 
never  failed  to  evoke;  but  the  Viscount  laughed  as  he  preceded 
Argyll  from  the  room. 

"My  cousin  and  your  son  are  of  a  mind,"  remarked  Argyll. 

"In  some  things,"  smiled  the  Viscount.  They  passed 
through  the  heavy  carved  doors  into  an  adjoining  room. 

"I  must  be  taking  my  leave,"  pursued  Argyll  weakly, 
and  seemingly  now,  when  alone  with  the  Viscount,  even  more 
ill  at  ease.  "I  am  due  at  Kensington  —  "  he  paused,  then 
reached  a  sudden  resolution  —  "My  lord,"  he  said,  "think 
you  your  son  will  get  the  King's  sanction  for  this  —  this  — 

"Affair  —  "  finished  the  Viscount  dryly.  "Well,  I  think  my 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  DALRYMPLES  167 

son  can  do  a  great  deal  with  the  King.  They  are  somewhat 
alike,  only,  unfortunately,  John  lacks  the  steady  purpose, 
that  settled  calm,  that  has  brought  His  Majesty  so  far.  When 
the  keynote  to  a  man's  character  is  recklessness,  his  success 
may  be  brilliant,  it  will  hardly  be  lasting.  My  son  is  absolutely 
reckless  —  you  marked  his  allusion  just  now  to  this  plot  he 
hoped  to  discover?" 

The  Viscount  twisted  his  wry  neck  with  a  keen  look  at 
Argyll,  who  stammered  his  reply  as  if  it  had  been  frightened 
out  of  him. 

"I  —  heard,  my  lord  —  he  mentioned  —  " 

"'Twas  most  injudicious,"  interrupted  the  Viscount 
smoothly.  "A  little  more  and  he  would  have  mentioned 
names  —  he  might  even  have  mentioned  yours,  my  lord." 

"Mine!"  cried  Argyll,  stepping  back. 

"Absurd  —  is  it  not  ?  —  but  even  supposing  you  were 
in  the  plot,  I  assure  you  that  John,  knowing  it,  is  capable 
of  disclosing  to  you  that  it  was  discovered." 

Argyll  gave  a  feeble  laugh.  "My  lord,  it  is  no'  a  concern  of 
mine  —  what  the  Jacobites  may  plot. " 

"Naturally,"  answered  Viscount  Stair.  "Merely  —  as 
my  son  said  —  there  are  great  names  imperiled." 

Argyll  saw  clearly  enough  that  the  astute  old  lawyer 
divined  that  he  was  implicated,  and  the  Viscount,  seeing 
it  as  clearly  his  side,  waited  for  Argyll's  nervousness  to 
betray  him  further. 

But  the  Earl's  caution  had  kept  him  from  giving  any 
written  pledge  to  the  Jacobites  and  the  knowledge  of  it 
steadied  him  now;  he  fenced  warily  with  the  Viscount's 
wiliness  and  took  his  leave,  more  hastily  than  ceremoniously, 
leaving  the  Viscount  in  a  pleasant  humor.  The  little  episode 


168  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

delighted  him;  he  chuckled  to  himself  at  the  thought  of 
Argyll's  face.  He  pictured  that  unfortunate  gentleman's  ago- 
nies as  he  hurried  home;  then  his  smile  deepened  as  he  saw 
still  further.  Argyll  might  warn  the  conspirators  that  the 
Master  was  on  their  track;  they  might  take  fright  and  escape 
the  net  spreading  for  them;  so  would  the  Master's  labor  go 
for  nothing;  the  Viscount  finally  laughed  aloud  at  the  thought 
of  the  storm  there  would  be  when  Sir  John  found  himself 
outwitted ;  his  was  the  temper  that  loves  to  provoke  and  then 
standing  aside  watch  the  violence  aroused  in  others. 

In  these  pleasant  thoughts  he  was  disturbed  by  the  sound 
of  the  opening  door  and  the  slow  entry  of  Lady  Dalrymple. 

At  sight  of  him  she  hesitated. 

"Where  is  Sir  John  ?"  she  asked. 

The  Viscount  pointed  to  the  folding  door.  "In  there,  with 
my  Lord  Breadalbane." 

She  shrank  away  from  the  door  as  if  she  saw  the  man 
behind  it.  ' 

"What  do  they  talk  of  ?"  she  asked  heavily. 

"Why,  madam,"  he  answered  dryly,  "what  business  is 
that  of  yours  ?" 

She  shook  her  head  drearily  and  crossed  to  the  window; 
in  the  gray  light  of  the  winter  afternoon  her  face  and  figure 
showed  one  dull  whiteness;  her  pale  hair,  her  white  dress 
and  her  pallor  made  her  appear  ghostlike  in  the  somber  room. 
A  few  flakes  of  snow  were  falling  across  the  leaden  sky; 
Lady  Dalrymple  stared  out  at  the  bleak  square  and  the 
bare  trees. 

"Madam,  have  you  no  occupation  ?"  asked  the  Viscount 
suavely. 

"No,"  she  answered,  without  looking  round. 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  DALRYMPLES  169 

"There  are  pleasanter  ways  of  doing  nothing,"  he  ob- 
served, "than  contemplating  a  dreariness." 

"My  lord  —  I  see  nothing  else  —  wherever  I  look." 
She  turned  her  head  and  her  dim  blue  eyes  rested  on  him. 
"An  unfortunate  disposition,"  he  remarked. 

She  came  down  the  room  restlessly,  her  head  hanging  a 
little. 

"Did  you  want  to  see  my  son  ?"  questioned  the  Viscount, 
eying  her. 

"No,"  she  answered  dully. 

"You  merely  questioned,  madam,  that  you  might  avoid 
him  ?" 

Lady  Dalrymple  lifted  her  head. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  with  trembling  lips. 

The  Viscount  smiled. 

"Will  you,  madam,  do  me  a  like  service  ?* 

"What?"  she  asked. 

"Avoid  me,  madam;  the  house  is  large  enough." 

A  faint  flush  came  into  her  face. 

"I  strive,  my  lord,  not  to  trouble  you. " 

"Madam,  you  are  hardly  successful." 

"Forgive  me,"  she  said,  very  white  again.  "It  is  not  of  my 
doing  that  I  am  your  son's  wife. " 

The  Viscount  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  am  not  responsible 
for  my  son's  domestic  affairs  —  " 

She  turned  and  faced  him. 

"Your  son  is  your  son,"  she  said  bitterly,  "and  what  you 
made  him.  Between  you,  you  have  goaded  me  into  some- 
thing near  craziness  —  but  you  shall  not  dare  to  judge  me  — 
you  who  know  what  your  son  is  —  without  pity,  or  charity, 
or  any  tenderness  —  violent  beyond  reason  —  mad !" 


170  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

The  Viscount  looked  at  her  straightly  and  smiled,  and 
at  his  smile  she  gave  him  a  wild  look  and  turned  hastily, 
as  if  frightened,  from  the  room. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  her  she  shuddered,  then  began 
slowly  ascending  the  great  stairs. 

So  lonely,  so  utterly  lonely!  The  vast  house  was  cer- 
tainly haunted;  she  continually  glanced  over  her  shoulder 
at  the  ghosts  catching  her  skirts. 

So  lonely,  so  intolerably  lonely!  the  dark  pictures  on  the 
walls  looked  ominous  and  threatening;  heavy  shadows 
lurked  in  every  corner;  she  began  to  hurry  like  a  guilty  thing, 
starting  before  every  open  door  with  a  frightened  glance  into 
the  empty  room  beyond.  She  came  to  the  very  top  of  the 
house;  the  low  attics  under  the  roof. 

One  of  these  she  entered,  catching  her  breath  at  her  own 
footsteps.  It  was  dusty,  empty,  this  garret,  yet  it  would  seem 
as  if  some  one  had  recently  been  there,  for  a  candle  in  a  silver 
stick  stood  on  the  window-ledge  and  a  broken  chair  was  drawn 
up  under  it;  in  one  corner  was  a  pile  of  boxes  and  some  old 
pictures  with  their  faces  to  the  wall. 

Lady  Dalrymple  shut  the  door  and  glided  softly  across 
the  floor;  her  face  wore  a  look  of  expectancy.  She  lit  the  can- 
dle; it  cast  a  dim  light,  showing  the  cobwebs  hanging  from  the 
ceiling  and  the  broken  plaster  of  the  walls  and  throwing  great 
shadows  from  the  boxes  in  the  corner. 

It  was  bitterly  cold  here,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  heed  it; 
carefully  she  placed  the  candle  so  that  it  did  not  gutter  in  the 
draught,  then,  sinking  on  her  knees  beside  them,  she  opened 
the  topmost  box. 

Out  of  it  with  infinite  care  she  took  a  large  jointed  doll,  the 
waxen  face  beautifully  modeled.  It  was  the  size  of  a  child 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  DALRYMPLES  171 

and  was  elegantly  dressed  in  velvet  and  lace;  Lady  Dalrymple 
set  it  on  the  chair  and  smoothed  out  the  collar  with  loving 
fingers. 

In  this  uncertain  light  the  doll  had  a  ghastly  semblance 
of  humanity;  like  a  dumb  and  motionless  child,  its  glass  eyes 
stared  at  the  woman  kneeling  at  its  side;  the  draught  from  the 
window  blew  its  black  curls  to  and  fro  in  lifelike  manner. 

Lady  Dalrymple  smiled  to  herself  and  stroked  the  velvet 
coat  half -timidly,  then  returning  to  the  box  she  brought  from 
it  a  work-basket  and  a  little  shirt  and  with  these  she  seated 
herself  beside  the  chair  and  began  to  mend  the  shirt  where 
the  wrist  ruffle  was  torn. 

Her  delicate  hand  flew  swiftly  to  and  fro;  for  all  the  ill- 
light  and  the  cold,  her  face  was  absorbed,  almost  contented. 
When  the  light  task  was  completed,  she  held  the  garment  up 
before  the  candle  with  a  little  smile;  she  was  shuddering  in  the 
bitter  draught  that  crept  round  the  attic ;  but  she  did  not  know 
it ;  her  lips  moved  as  if  she  spoke  to  herself ;  she  drew  the  doll 
down  and  removing  its  coat,  carefully  fitted  on  the  shirt; 
it  was  too  large  and  hung  stiffly  on  the  unbending  figure; 
but  Lady  Dalrymple  held  the  doll  out  at  arm's  length  with  a 
wistful  face;  then  caught  it  to  her  poor  empty  heart  and 
rocked  it  to  and  fro  with  passionate  hands  clasping  the  inani- 
mate rag. 

"Harry,"  her  cold  lips  murmured,  "so  you  used  to  sit — • 
it  feels  like  you  —  so  —  then  your  arms  would  go  round  my 
neck  —  slowly. " 

She  quivered  into  a  smile  at  the  recollection. 

"Then  you  would  lift  your  face  up  —  all  soft  and  warm  — • 
ah,  my  dear  —  my  dear  —  " 

Her  great  moist  eyes  turned  to  the  thing  in  her  arms; 


172  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

she  saw  the  staring  glassy  eyes,  the  hard  wax  face  and  rose, 
setting  it  it  aside. 

"It  is  a  lie,"  she  said  with  the  quiet  of  agony.  "You  are 
dead." 

She  laid  her  face  against  the  wall  and  woe  shook  her  whole 
body. 

"God!  —  are  these  things  just?"  she  said  with  clenched 
hands.  "Is  it  right  these  things  should  be  ?  —  that  I  should 
live  to  think  upon  his  grave  ?" 

Her  voice  echoed  through  the  bare  rafters;  a  sudden  gust 
of  wind  blew  the  window  open  and  the  candle  out;  she  gave 
a  cry  of  terror  and  rushed  from  the  room,  shutting  the  door 
behind  her.  At  a  swift  regardless  pace  she  came  down  the 
stairs  till  she  reached  a  landing  where  a  dim  lamp  hung. 

She  paused  there  a  moment  as  if  she  had  forgotten  where 
she  would  go,  and  while  she  hesitated  a  door  was  opened  and 
the  Master  of  Stair  stepped  out.  His  wife  shrank  back  against 
the  wall,  but  he  stopped  and  their  eyes  met. 

He  noticed  her  face,  her  fallen  hair,  the  dust  upon  her 
dress. 

"Who  are  you  ?  Where  have  you  been  ?"  he  asked,  start- 
ing back. 

Her  side  she  drew  herself  still  further  away;  her  lips  formed 
a  half -smile;  very  foolish,  very  tragic. 

He  swept  past  her  down  the  stairs,  fiercely  as  though  the 
Furies  were  after  him;  the  clatter  of  his  sword  on  the  marble 
echoed  through  the  empty  house. 

His  wife  had  reminded  him  of  his  sister  Janet,  with  her 
blank  blue  eyes,  her  soft  white  face  and  her  curious  crouch- 
ing attitude,  like  an  animal  expecting  the  whip. 

He  gave  a  wild  laugh;  for  that  one  startled  moment  he  had 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  DALRYMPLES  173 

thought  it  was  his  sister,  and  she  dead  twenty  years!  His 
thoughts  were  wandering;  he  laughed  again  recklessly  and 
flinging  his  head  back,  looked  up. 

Lady  Dalrymple  had  come  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  and 
was  peering  down,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  —  surely 
it  was  his  sister  —  and  the  house  was  haunted  as  he  had 
known  —  known  — 

So  strong  was  the  feeling  that  the  man  felt  the  word  form- 
ing on  his  lips,  "Janet!" 

The  woman  suddenly  broke  into  laughter,  crazily,  an  echo 
of  his  own  and  turned  away  and  disappeared,  and  the  Master 
of  Stair  flung  on  his  way  with  the  sound  of  it  in  his  ears. 


CHAPTER  XV 
THE  AVOWAL 

THE  afternoon  service  at  Westminster  Abbey  had 
commenced ;  Delia  Featherstonehaugh  sat  in  the 
cloisters  and  listened  to  the  lift  of  the  singing. 
The  place  was  yellow  with   the   late   sunshine; 
through  the  open  arches  glittered  the  untrodden  snow  under 
the  faint  blue  of  an  English  winter  sky. 

Save  for  the  sound  of  the  organ  and  the  half-muffled 
singing  there  was  such  silence  that  the  whirr  past  of  a  bird 
became  a  notable  thing.  Delia  gazed  down  the  shadowy 
cloisters  into  their  dimness,  barred  with  the  gold  of  the  sun- 
shine. She  noted  the  slender  stone  ribbings  rising  perfectly 
to  join  like  hands  in  prayer,  somewhere  in  the  mystery  of 
the  dark  roof,  and  the  Tudor  roses  each  with  its  golden  coun- 
terpart on  the  gray  flagstone,  and  she  sighed,  for  no  reason 
save  the  stillness  of  it  all. 

Close  under  her  feet  was  the  brass  gravestone  of  a  bishop^ 
who  had  been  dust  for  three  hundred  years;  his  Latin 
titles,  shining  in  the  sun,  measured  many  paces;  against 
the  wall  near  by  was  a  tablet  to  the  memory  of  one  three 
years  dead,  and  this  was  all  it  bore  beside  her  name:  "Dear 
childe." 

Faintly  through  the  Abbey  walls  came  the  choir's  singing 
as  disembodied,  as  grave  as  angels';  Delia's  hands  slipped  out 
of  her  muff  and  onto  the  stone  beside  her;  her  lips  parted  and 

174 


THE  AVOWAL  175 

her  head  sank  back  against  the  gray  old  wall;  under  her  red 
coat  her  heart  was  heaving  passionately. 

Suddenly  the  singing  grew  louder;  she  heard  the  first  out- 
burst of  the  Cantate  Domino 

"O  sing  unto  the  Lord  a  new  song  —  for  He  hath  done 
marvelous  things. " 

She  sat  up  and  looked  round;  a  man  was  entering  the 
cloisters  from  the  Abbey,  as  he  closed  the  door  behind  him 
the  singing  sank  again  to  faintness. 

Delia  sat  upright,  motionless,  looking  toward  the  new-com- 
er; it  was  Mr.  Wedderburn. 

The  cloister  echoed  to  his  firm  footstep  as  he  came  toward 
her;  his  riding-cloak  was  over  his  arm;  he  swung  his  hat  and 
whip  in  his  hand ;  seeing  her  he  gave  a  little  start,  then  came 
on  and  halted,  his  figure  between  her  and  the  winter  sunlight: 
"Delia !"  he  said,  and  he  half -smiled. 
She  could  find  no  words  to  answer  him;  she  turned  her 
face  away  and  stared  down  at  her  own  still  hand. 
"You  often  come  here  ?"  he  asked. 
"Yes." 

He  came  nearer  and  leaned  against  the  wall  beside  her 
easily,  as  if  it  were  the  most  likely  thing  that  they  should 
have  met  thus. 

"I  am  on  my  way  to  '  The  Sleeping  Queen,'  "  he  said,  "to 
see  your  brother  —  but  I  have  time  upon  my  hands." 

She  looked  up  at  him;  the  sunshine  touched  his  face  and 
his  plain  dark  attire. 
He  smiled  again. 

"Will  you  be  sorry  when  I  leave  for  France  ?"  he  said. 
The  brown  eyes  widened. 
"Why  do  you  ask  ?"  she  murmured  faintly. 


176  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"My  faith  —  I  wondered." 

"Why,  sir,  do  you,  can  you  care  whether  it  matters  to  me 
or  no  ?"  cried  Delia,  a  little  wildly. 

"Yes,  I  care,"  he  answered. 

There  was  a  pause;  the  singing  had  ceased.  Delia  bent  her 
head  and  rested  unseeing  eyes  upon  the  bishop's  tombstone. 

"You  take,  sir,  a  curious  tone  for  a  stranger,"  she  said  at 
last. 

"I  would  not  have  us  strangers,  Delia  —  did  not  you  say, 
the  same  King,  the  same  faith,  the  same  cause  ?" 

She  turned  as  some  one  standing  on  defense. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

A  slight  smile  crossed  his  face;  it  might  have  been  sadness 
or  contempt;  he  leaned  heavily  against  the  Abbey  wall  and 
his  shadow  was  over  Delia. 

"What  do  I  mean?"  he  repeated;  he  looked  at  her  in  a 
very  gentle  manner.  "I  mean  I  should  like  to  be  in  your 
thoughts  sometimes  — 

She  rose,  and  her  muff  fell  unnoticed  between  them. 

"Am  I  in  yours  ?"  she  asked  slowly. 

"You  have  the  sweetest  face  I  have  ever  met,"  he  said 
quietly,  "Is  it  likely  I  should  forget  you  ?" 

She  went  very  pale  and  put  her  hands  together  in  a  be- 
wildered way;  he  surveyed  her  gravely  with  a  half-sad  interest, 
standing  very  much  at  his  ease  and  carelessly  while  she  was 
tense  and  painfully  still. 

"Delia,"  he  smiled.  "Delia." 

She  stepped  back. 

"What  is  it  you  want  with  me  ?"  she  said. 

He  moved  from  his  place.  "Do  you  care  for  me  ?"  he 
asked.  "Could  you  ever  care  for  me  ?" 


THE  AVOWAL  177 

She  fell  back  before  him.  "Oh,  why  do  you  ask  ?"  she  cried. 

His  eyes  rested  on  her  with  a  curious  expression  as  of 
yearning. 

"Because  I  care  for  you,"  he  answered.  "Don't  you  under- 
stand, Delia?" 

The  first  notes  of  the  anthem  were  sounding  through  the 
silence  as  she  answered  faintly : 

"It  cannot  be  you  mean  this.     .     .     ." 

She  sat  down  heavily  and  clasped  her  trembling  hands  very 
tightly. 

"Well  —  but  if  I  did  mean  it  ?"  he  inquired. 

"If  you  did  mean  it?"  she  whispered,  looking  up.  "Ah,  if 
you  did  mean  it  — " 

Her  voice  died  away,  she  sat  silent  as  if  terrified;  and 
now  the  sun  left  him  and  lay  behind  her  head  halo- wise  and 
sparkled  in  her  brown  eyes. 

Mr.  Wedderburn,  looking  very  intently  down  at  her,  bent  a 
little  nearer. 

"Sweetheart  —  ye  shall  answer  me,"  he  said.  "Nay,  ye 
shall  — " 

"Ah,  what  will  you  force  me  to  say?"  she  answered  des- 
perately. "What  do  you  want  ?" 

He  bent  till  the  ringlets  on  his  breast  touched  her  shoulder; 
he  very  delicately  smiled  into  her  pale  face. 

"Delia,  answer  me." 

"Ah,  my  heart,  I  cannot !"  she  cried,  with  wild  eyes  on  his 
face. 

"Surely  I  am  answered, "  said  Mr.  Wedderburn,  and  a  slight 
flush  passed  over  his  pallor.  "Surely  you  think  of  me  as  I  of 
you,  Delia  — " 

With  a  little  cry  she  rose  up  against  the  wall. 


178  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Indeed,  I  love  you,"  she  said,  breathing  hard.  "Ah,  indeed 
—  indeed  — " 

Then  she  sank  down  again,  hiding  her  face  in  her  fluttering 
hands. 

He  looked  at  her  curiously,  his  lips  touched  with  his  little 
lazy  half-smile. 

"I  do  not  deserve  it,  Delia,"  he  said;  then  in  a  strange  voice: 
"You  and  I  —  by  such  ways  to  this !  You  and  I  —  look  up  and 
speak  to  me. " 

She  dropped  her  hands  and  looked  at  him. 

"I  may  speak,"  she  said  hoarsely,  "but  never  shall  I  tell 
how  utterly  I  love  you  —  beyond  all  reason  —  all  measure. 
Ah,  since  I  first  saw  you  the  world  has  stopped  about  me,  and 
there  has  been  nothing  but  this  one  thought  of  you !" 

He  caught  his  breath. 

"Why  —  are  these  things  possible  ?"  he  asked.  "And  you 
do  not  know  me." 

She  rose  and  turned  to  him  in  a  triumphant  passion,  her 
hand  lightly  on  her  heart. 

"No,  I  only  love  you,"  she  said.  "And  that  makes  it  seem 
as  if  you  had  been  one  with  my  life  from  the  first.  Ah,  can  you 
think  of  time  ?" 

"God  knows,  of  nothing,"  he  answered;  he  held  his  un- 
gloved hand  out  as  if  to  take  hers,  but  she  fell  back. 

"Ah,  don't  touch  me,"  she  said  unsteadily.  "Not  yet  —  not 
yet.  I  am  so  happy,  that  I  am  afraid,  and  if  you  touch  me  you 
may  break  the  spell,  and  my  dream  go  away. " 

He  laughed  gently. 

"But  this  is  no  dream,  sweetheart,  do  you  not  hear  the 
anthem  yonder  in  the  church  ?  And  all  around  us  the  graves  ? 
There  are  no  graves  in  dreams." 


THE  AVOWAL  179 

"Nor  surely  often  such  joy  on  earth,"  whispered  Delia. 
"As  mine  —  as  mine  —  yet  what  have  I  said  ?  Shame  should 
hold  me  silent  —  but  you  have  disarmed  me  and  laid  me  de- 
fenseless at  your  feet  —  ah,  leave  me,  for  I  have  said  too 
much!" 

He  laid  his  hand  very  lightly  on  her  shoulder. 

"You  make  mine  unworthiness  a  heavy  thing,"  he  said 
somberly.  "If  you  are  sincere  —  Delia  — " 

She  thought  he  doubted  her,  and  her  pure  face  paled  and 
flushed. 

"Alas !  you  had  not  said  that  had  I  been  silent  longer,"  she 
cried.  "You  carried  my  heart  too  soon  to  value  it  —  yet  if  you 
love  me  — " 

"Delia  — if  I  love  you?" 

"You  will  not  doubt  that  my  very  soul  is  yours  —  ah,  Heaven 
—  forever!" 

"I  wonder, "  he  said  musingly.  "Nay,  do  not  turn  your  face 
away,  for  it  is  lovely  to  look  upon  —  and  mine  —  you  say 
forever." 

"Yes, "  she  said  trembling. 

He  seated  himself  beside  her  and  took  her  cold  hands  in  his; 
this  time  she  did  not  resist ;  complete  silence  was  about  them ; 
the  Abbey  service  was  over;  long  shadows  filled  the  cloisters 
and  the  sunlight  had  faded  to  a  mere  stain  on  the  wall.  Loose 
gray  clouds  sped  over  the  sky,  and  a  chill  little  wind  blew  in 
and  out  the  arches. 

Delia  rose,  drawing  her  hand  away,  her  face  was  hidden 
under  the  shadow  of  her  hat,  her  figure  a  shadow  among 
shadows.  He  rose  beside  her;  his  footfall  echoed  through  the 
emptiness. 

"My  sweet  child, "  he  said,  in  a  voice  fallen  very  low  and  soft. 


180  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

She  turned  without  a  word  and  her  head  lifted  slowly,  he 
saw  her  eyes  were  glittering  with  tears. 

"Kiss  me,"  he  said  gently. 

She  shrank  back. 

"Ah,  no,"  she  pleaded.  "Not  that  —  I  love  you  so  — "  her 
voice  fell  brokenly.  "I  mean  —  I  - 

"Why,  surely,  you  may  kiss  me,  Delia  ?"  he  answered. 

Further  still  into  the  shadows  she  withdrew. 

"Love  is  not  kisses,"  she  said  faintly. 

"Some  think  so,  Delia,"  he  smiled. 

"I  —  I  would  not,"  she  faltered. 

He  picked  up  his  hat  and  whip. 

"Sweetheart  —  I  must  go." 

"Yes,"  she  said  softly.  "But  I  have  the  thought  of  you, 
which  is  company  enough." 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment  through  the  twilight. 

"Now  will  that  thought  last  till  next  we  meet  ?"  he  asked. 

"Why  you  know,"  she  said  wonderingly,  "do  we  not  love 
each  other?" 

"Yet  you  will  not  kiss  me  ?" 

She  drooped  again  in  shyness. 

"I  have  said  enough  —  without,"  she  murmured. 

"Then,  Delia  —  farewell." 

She  glanced  at  him  timidly. 

"I  —  do  not  use  your  name,"  she  whispered.  "And  yet  I 
know  it  and  yet  I  am  afraid  —  and  know  not  — 

"Why,  you  shall  call  me  by  it  now,"  he  answered.  "And 
next  time  it  shall  be  nothing  else  —  John." 

"John !"  she  echoed,  bewildered.  "But  your  name  is  An- 
drew." 

He  stared  a  second,  then  laughed. 


THE  AVOWAL  181 

"But  those  I  love  do  use  my  second  name. " 

"Yet  I  mislike  it,"  she  said.  "And  ever  in  my  thoughts  you 
are  Andrew. " 

"Why  do  you  mislike  the  name  of  John  ?"  he  asked. 

"It  is  linked  for  me  with  the  Master  of  Stair,"  said  Delia. 
"He  is  our  enemy  and  hateful  to  me  —  I  would  not  call  you 
by  the  name  of  that  accursed  man." 

"Then  call  me  what  you  will, "  he  answered  swiftly.  "There 
are  strange  names  you  will  use  to  me  yet  —  God  knows ! 
Farewell!" 

"Ah,  stay  —  for  I  have  something  to  say,"  she  whis- 
pered. 

He  stopped,  waiting;  they  stood  in  so  dark  a  shadow  that 
she  could  only  see  the  outline  of  his  figure. 

"About  the  Macdonalds  of  Glencoe,"  she  said.  "I  would 
ask  you  to  help  me  save  them. " 

Her  voice  fell  very  tenderly. 

"I  have  a  great  reason  to  wish  to  save  them,"  she  continued. 
"There  is  one  among  them  whom  I  thought  —  ah,  I  thought  — " 
She  laughed  happily  —  "I  thought  I  cared  for  till  I  met  you  — 
no  one  knew  —  but  I  believed  I  cared  —  yet  it  was  only  pity 
and  loneliness  —  yet  did  I  vow  to  save  him  —  and  now  — 
do  not  you  see  ?  Out  of  loyalty  to  that  old  vow  of  mine,  I 
am  pledged  to  save  him  still. " 

He  was  silent.  She  drew  timidly  a  little  closer. 

"You  understand  ?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"I  understand,"  he  said  gloomily.  "That  you  should  ask 
me !  I  have  no  power. " 

"'Twill  be  a  service  to  the  King,"  she  answered.  "Ah,  as 
you  love  me  — " 

He  took  the  words  from  her  lips. 


182  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"As  I  love  you,  I  will  do  it,"  he  said  recklessly.  "Now  will 
you  kiss  me?" 

She  held  out  her  hands. 

"If  you  ask  it,"  she  said  passionately. 

He  took  her  hands  in  his  and  stared  down  into  her  surrend- 
ered face ;  then  suddenly  let  her  go. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  will  wait  till  you  do  offer  it.  Farewell." 

He  turned  away  abruptly  into  the  darkness. 

She  listened  to  his  footsteps  till  they  had  died  into  the  dis- 
tance, then  she  turned  and  went  slowly  toward  the  Abbey. 

She  entered  it  on  tiptoe;  there  were  lights  burning  on  the 
altar,  but  it  was  empty;  she  passed  lightly  down  the  chancel 
till  she  reached  the  door  that  led  into  the  little  chapel  of 
St.  Faith.  With  hushed  heart  she  entered;  here  she  could 
think  she  was  in  a  church  undefiled  by  another  faith;  the  re- 
former's hand  had  passed  this  corner  by;  two  candles  burnt 
on  the  low  altar;  the  air  was  close  and  heavy;  from  the  dark 
walls  leaned  wild  angel  face  with  parted  lips  and  blown-back 
hair,  as  if  they  strained  out  of  the  stone  to  cry  aloud  to  those 
beneath. 

Delia  sank  to  her  knees  on  the  stone  floor,  and  her  fingers 
fumbled  with  the  rosary  at  her  breast.  She  was  uplifted,  carried 
out  of  herself;  as  though  those  candles  could  burn  forever, 
till  the  angels'  heads  should  speak  and  bursting  from  their 
stone,  pull  the  church  about  them  in  a  great  shout  for  judg- 
ment. Delia  felt  her  senses  swoon  within  her;  she  shook  and 
shuddered  as  she  knelt. 

"Ah,  God,  make  me  worthy  of  that  man's  love !"  she  prayed 
passionately.  "For  I  have  not  deserved  this  happiness !" 


CHAPTER  XVI 
A  LAMPOON  ANSWERED 

MR.    WEDDERBURN    entered  the  parlor   of 
"The  Sleeping  Queen,"  true  to  his  appointed 
time. 
He  found  alone,  and  busily  writing,  Sir  Per- 
seus, who  greeted  him  cordially  in  his  pleasant,  blunt  manner. 

Mr.  Caryl,  he  said,  had  been  summoned  by  his  grace  of 
Berwick,  but  he  expected  his  return  shortly,  and  though  he, 
Sir  Perseus,  actually  had  the  papers  Mr.  Wedderburn  was  to 
carry  to  France,  it  would  be  better  if  the  emissary  would  wait 
and  see  Mr.  Caryl. 

Mr.  Wedderburn  gave  a  short  answer  and  flung  himself  into 
the  chair  by  the  fire ;  he  was  obviously  in  an  ill-humor. 

Sir  Perseus  talked  of  the  plot  and  the  promising  prospects  of 
success;  he  praised  Mr.  Caryl's  vast  labor  and  skill  in  the 
cause  of  King  James,  and  hinted  that  the  time  was  not  far 
distant  when  the  devotion  of  His  Majesty's  adherents  would 
be  rewarded  by  seeing  him  enjoy  his  own  again. 

Mr.  Wedderburn  briefly  assented  to  these  remarks  and 
stared  moodily  into  the  fire. 

Once  they  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  the  printer, 
who  laid  down  a  packet  of  pamphlets  and  silently  withdrew. 

Sir  Perseus  began  sorting  them. 

"Delia  is  late,"  he  remarked.  "You  may  have  seen  her  if 
you  came  through  the  Abbey  —  she  often  goes  there. " 

183 


184  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Yes,  I  saw  her,"  answered  Mr.  Wedderburn  gloomily. 
"Mr.  Caryl,  too,  is  late." 

"Are  you  pressed  for  time  ?"  asked  Sir  Perseus. 

The  other  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"The  boat  is  to  call  for  me  to-morrow  noon,"  he  said,  "and 
I  have  to  get  to  Romney  —  a  delay  would  be  impolitic. " 

"It  will  be  unnecessary,"  answered  Sir  Perseus  readily.  "I 
have  the  papers  —  I  am  sure  Mr.  Caryl  would  see  the  de- 
sirability of  your  running  no  risk  of  delay. " 

He  went  to  a  box  in  the  corner,  unlocked  it  and  lifted  out  a 
flat  leathern  case. 

Mr.  Wedderburn  turned  in  his  chair  and  watched  him  as  he 
brought  it  to  the  table  and  showed  the  contents. 

"This,  sir  — "  Sir  Perseus  laid  a  bulky  sealed  packet  down, 
"is  the  letter  to  His  Majesty  from  his  supporters  in  England, 
assuring  him  of  their  aid  should  he  land  an  English  army  - 
it  is  what  he  asked  for  to  show  Louis. " 

"It  contains  the  names  of  all  the  conspirators  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Wedderburn. 

"We  have  all,  from  the  highest  to  the  humblest,  signed  it," 
was  the  answer,  given  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction.  "It  should 
please  his  Majesty  and  satisfy  Louis.  This  is  Mr.  Caryl's 
letter  and  report  to  the  King  —  this  the  Duke  of  Berwick's  — 
these  three  papers  are  all,  Mr.  Wedderburn. " 

"Deadly  enough,  were  they  discovered,"  commented  the 
other,  dryly. 

"We  are  confident  that  His  Majesty  selected  a  messenger 
who  would  see  they  were  not  discovered,"  said  Sir  Perseus, 
putting  the  papers  back  into  their  case. 

Mr.  Wedderburn  gave  a  sudden  laugh  and  rose.  "Sir,  my 
life  upon  their  safe  delivery  to  —  the  King. " 


A  LAMPOON  ANSWERED  185 

"Sir  —  it  is  a  weighty  trust,"  answered  Sir  Perseus  gravely. 
"The  lives  and  honors  of  many  men  —  the  fate  of  a  king- 
dom." 

Mr.  Wedderburn  made  no  answer  and  presently  he  began 
to  pace  the  room  in  a  manner  that  at  last  attracted  the  other's 
attention;  he  began  to  look  at  him  curiously;  he  noticed  that 
the  King's  messenger  appeared  absorbed,  gloomy,  as  if  he 
reined  in  high  passions,  that  his  face  was  unnaturally  pale  and 
shadowed  under  his  brilliant  eyes  as  if  he  had  been  through 
great  pain  or  sleeplessness.  Sir  Perseus  studied  him  covertly, 
with  a  growing  uneasiness ;  he  did  not  look  like  a  man  in  the 
mood  to  undertake  a  difficult  enterprise. 

Mr.  Wedderburn  meanwhile  continued  walking  heavily  to 
and  fro,  as  if  utterly  careless  of  the  impression  he  might  make. 
It  grew  late;  Sir  Perseus  expressed  a  wish  that  Mr.  Caryl 
might  return. 

"It  matters  not  —  I  have  a  good  horse  without,"  said  Mr. 
Wedderburn,  and  fell  into  his  silence  again. 

A  strange  and  utterly  undefinable  sense  of  distrust  and  fear 
came  over  Sir  Perseus;  his  hand  went  out  and  instinctively 
covered  the  leathern  case  while  he  eyed  his  restless  companion. 
The  longer  he  watched  this  silent  man  and  noted  his  lithe 
strength,  his  brooding  face,  his  reckless  pose  and  his  strange, 
wild  eyes,  the  more  his  unreasoning  fear  increased ;  he  began 
to  long  for  the  return  of  Jerome  Caryl,  to  resolve  that  he  would 
not  part  with  the  papers  until  that  return. 

Mr.  Wedderburn  broke  the  silence  by  ringing  the  bell  and 
calling  for  wine.  When  it  came  they  drank  together  in  a 
curious  heavy  stillness,  as  if  both  knew  something  was  im- 
pending, yet  could  not  speak  of  it. 

Mr.  Wedderburn  drained  his  glass  in  a  kind  of  fierce  haste, 


186  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

then  fell  again  to  his  pacing,  the  other  watching  intent  and 
tense. 

It  struck  eight. 

Neither  remarked  on  the  passing  of  the  time;  the  man  at 
the  table  slipped  the  leathern  case  into  the  breast  of  his  coat, 
why,  he  could  not  have  told,  save  that  he  felt  unnerved. 

Mr.  Wedderburn  came  at  last  to  a  sudden  stand  on  the 
hearth,  the  firelight  full  on  his  handsome  face. 

"What  do  you  write  ?"  he  asked. 

"Pamphlets  —  lampoons  — "  was  the  answer. 

"Ah  — on  whom?" 

"Naturally  —  the  Williamites. " 

"And  you  circulate  them  ?" 

"Successfully  —  into  Kensington,  itself. " 

"You  are  daring  —  and  fortunate, "  frowned  Mr.  Wedder- 
burn. 

Sir  Perseus  looked  at  him  with  an  honest,  puzzled  face;  he 
could  neither  understand  the  man  nor  his  own  sense  of  un- 
easiness. 

"What  are  these  ?"  asked  the  other,  and  crossed  to  the  table; 
his  rich  dark  presence  coming  so  close,  still  further  impressed 
Sir  Perseus  with  an  unaccountable  feeling  of  mistrust. 

"Ah,  those  are  lampoons  on  the  Master  of  Stair,"  he  an- 
swered. "We  find  him  a  fine  target." 

Mr.  Wedderburn's  eyes  flashed;  he  poured  out  more  wine 
and  drank  it  slowly. 

"The  Master  of  Stair!"  he  said.  "I  have  heard  a  great  deal 
of  the  Master  of  Stair,"  he  gave  a  half-smile,  "Now  what 
have  you  to  say  of  him  ?" 

He  set  his  glass  down  and  Sir  Perseus  marked  his  strong 
shapely  hand  as  it  lay  round  the  stem. 


A  LAMPOON  ANSWERED  187 

"Come,"  the  other  insisted  in  an  imperious  manner,  leaning 
a  little  across  the  table,  "let  me  hear  your  skill  in  lampoons." 

"I  do  not  write  them  —  I  merely  collect  the  materials. " 

"So  they  are  true  ?" 

"God  knows,  one  needs  not  to  invent  lies  of  the  Master  of 
Stair." 

Mr.  Wedderburn's  azure  eyes  narrowed  into  a  steady  look; 
he  leaned  forward,  his  arms  folded  on  the  table;  there  was  a 
little  smile  on  his  curved  lips. 

"Read  this  same  lampoon  to  me,"  he  said.  "  'Twill  pass  the 
time  till  Mr.  Caryl  comes  — " 

Sir  Perseus  felt  as  one  fumbling  in  the  dark;  he  could  not 
make  this  Wedderburn  out;  awed,  spite  of  uneasiness  and 
fascinated  through  all  his  watchful  mistrust,  he  decided  that 
the  best  thing  was  to  wait;  he  put  his  hand  over  the  papers  on 
his  breast. 

"Why  —  as  you  say  —  it  will  pass  the  time,"  he  answered. 
"Yet  it  is  foolish  doggerel  —  serving  only  to  sting  our  enemies. 

"And  the  truth,  you  say  ?" 

"Else  it  would  not  sting." 

And  Sir  Perseus  picked  up  the  topmost  printed  sheet  and 
unfolded  it;  Mr.  Wedderburn  fixed  upon  him  his  brilliant 
eyes. 

Sir  Perseus  glanced  at  the  clock,  then  commenced  reading 
in  his  pleasant,  even  voice: 

Of  all  these  men  who  make  the  laws, 

That  they  may  easy  break  the  laws, 

I  know  no  knaves  I  could  compare 

With  the  brood  begot  by  the  Viscount  Stair. 

"A  bold  beginning,"  remarked  Mr.  Wedderburn. 
Sir  Perseus  continued : 


188  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

Of  all  this  race  by  Heaven  cursed, 
John,  is  the  eldest  and  the  worst, 
A  specious  knave,  whose  end  will  be 
A-dancing  on  the  gallows-tree. 

He  paused,  thinking  he  heard  a  footstep. 
"Go  on,"  smiled  Mr.  Wedderburn. 

There  is  no  deed  he  would  not  do 
Or  readily  put  his  hand  thereto 
So  he  might  gain  this  world's  gear. 
Scruples  knows  he  not  nor  fear. 
Born  was  he  of  a  witch  from  Hell, 
And  Satan  knew  his  father  well, 
A  hideous  curse  is  on  his  name, 
Deep  has  he  drunk  of  every  shame  — 

Sir   Perseus    interrupted    himself:    "Hardly   very   witty," 
he  remarked,  "but  it  impresses  the  people  it  goes  among." 
"Go  on,"  was  the  brief  rejoinder. 
Sir  Perseus  caught  at  the  means  of  filling  time  that  dragged. 

His  only  sister  miserably  died 
A  mad  and  an  unwilling  bride, 
Her  husband  she  did  try  to  slay, 
The  devil  snatched  her  clear  away 
And  tore  her  raving  limb  from  limb, 
Long  had  she  sold  her  soul  to  him  — 

Mr.  Wedderburn  suddenly  clenched  his  hand  on  the  table, 
his  eyes  were  very  dark,  his  face  very  pale. 

"Fine  matter  for  your  hawkers  to  shout  and  the  gutter 
scum  to  read,"  he  said  thickly,  "Go  on." 

His  brother,  seeing  clear  his  end, 
(Indeed  he  knew  that  God  would  send 
The  same  unto  them  all) 
Vowed  he  would  Jack  Ketch  forestall 
And  so  himself  he  hanged. 


A  LAMPOON  ANSWERED  189 

Sir  Perseus  paused  to  turn  the  paper,  glancing  up  he  noticed 
the  face  of  the  man  opposite.  "Sir,"  he  asked  curiously, 
"why  do  you  so  look  at  me  ?" 

"For  what  reason  save  interest,"  answered  Mr.  Wedder- 
burn,  in  no  way  altering  his  steady  gaze.  "Will  you  not 
continue  ?" 

"If  it  interests  you,"  Sir  Perseus  spoke  uneasily.  "Mr. 
Caryl  is  late." 

"An  unpardonable  fault,"  cried  the  other  imperiously. 
"But  I  pray  you  —  continue  this  pleasant  reading."  He 
pushed  his  chair  from  the  table,  his  right  hand  had  slipped 
to  his  sword-hilt  he  was  leaning  back  very  easily,  yet  some- 
thing about  him  made  Sir  Perseus  hesitate,  yet  impelled  to 
fill  the  pause,  he  recommenced : 

His  children,  were  devils  born 
Who  laughed  God  to  scorn 
Once,  in  childish  play, 
One  did  the  other  slay. 
Their  father  came,  and  smiled  to  see. 
The  red  blood  run  so  merrily. 
Think  you  it  gave  HIM  pain 
To  see  his  son  a  second  Cain  ? 

Sir  Perseus  paused,  watchful  of  his  companion,  but  Mr. 
Wedderburn  sat  very  quietly;  as  though  indeed  he  was  not 
listening.  Sir  Perseus,  however,  preferred  passing  the  time 
in  reading  rather  than  in  further  conversation ;  with  a  fervent, 
silent  wish  for  Jerome  Caryl,  he  droned  on : 

His  wife  too  felt  little  grief 

Or  else  she  quickly  found  relief  — 

For  her  youngest  newly  dead 

A  merry  life  she  led 

And  did  her  consolation  take 


190  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

In  loving  of  a  Hell-cat  rake 

A  man  with  all  the  vices  rife 

A  lover  fit  for  the  Master's  wife  — 

"A  moment,  sir. " 

Mr.  Wedderburn  leaned  forward  in  a  manner,  that,  al- 
though still  quiet,  stopped  Sir  Perseus  instantly. 

"Where  do  you  get  your  information,  sir  ?"  he   asked. 

Sir  Perseus  put  down  the  pamphlet. 

"Why,  from  common  talk,"  he  said. 

"Common  talk!"  cried  the  other  in  a  strange  voice,  "so 
these  things  are  common  talk !  And  this  last  of  your  gutter 
lies,  is  that  common,  too  ?" 

"So  common,  sir,  that  you  should  know  it,"  answered 
Sir  Perseus,  firing.  "  'Tis  public  property,  God  knows." 

Mr.  Wedderburn's  intense  eyes  never  lost  their  steadi- 
ness; he  spoke  in  the  same  suppressed  voice: 

"I  have  never  heard  anything  against  the  fair  name  of 
Lady  Dalrymple,"  he  said. 

Sir  Perseus,  angered  and  bewildered,  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"You've  lived  too  long  in  France,  sir,  or  you  would  know 
that  Sir  John  Dalrymple's  wife  is  no  better  than  the  rest  of 
his  family  —  and  that  Tom  Wharton  —  ' 

Mr.  Wedderburn  rose  so  abruptly  that  Sir  Perseus  sprang 
also  to  his  feet,  like  a  man  suddenly  seeing  danger. 

"What  of  Mr.  Wharton?"  demanded  Mr.  Wedderburn 
softly. 

"What  are  these  demands?"  cried  Sir  Perseus  hotly. 
"Why  are  you  championing  the  Whigs?" 

"No  matter  for  that,"  interrupted  the  other.  "I  ask  you  — 
what  of  Mr.  Wharton  ?" 

Sir  Perseus  shrugged  his  shoulders. 


A  LAMPOON  ANSWERED  191 

"Sir,  you  want  it  put  too  plainly  —  what  of  my  Lady 
Sunderland  and  Mr.  Sidney  belike,  you've  heard  that  tale  — 
even  in  France  ?  And  the  part  the  Earl  takes  —  a  common 
situation  among  these  canting  Whigs. " 

MX.  Wedderburn  came  a  step  nearer. 

"Do  you  couple  that  woman's  name  with  that  of 
Lady  Dalrymple,"  he  said  unsteadily.  "Even  in  your  foul 
libels?" 

Sir  Perseus  flushed  angrily. 

"What  brief  have  you  in  this  cause  ?  Lady  Dalrymple 
cannot  shrink  from  the  Countess's  company.  As  I  said,  the 
situation  is  the  same  —  Tom  Wharton  is  as  worthless  a 
rake  as  Harry  Sidney  —  and  as  fortunate  a  lover, —  while 
Sir  John  is  as  complacent  a  husband  as  the  Earl  —  " 

Mr.  Wedderburn  leaned  forward  and  struck  the  speaker 
on  the  breast  with  his  clenched  hand  so  fiercely  that  he 
staggered  and  almost  fell,  struck  him  with  such  fury  and  un- 
restrained passion  that  he  gave  a  cry,  thinking  a  madman 
attacked  him,  struck  him  with  his  hand  and  then  with  his 
crumpled  glove  full  on  his  wincing  face. 

"You  bring  your  lies  to  the  wrong  market,  you  Papist  cur !" 
he  said  hoarsely.  "I  am  John  Dalrymple  and  I  stand  here  to 
refute  your  cursed  slanders !" 

He  flung  aside  his  gloves  and  cloak  and  his  sword  sprang 
out  in  the  candle-light. 

"My  God !"  whispered  Sir  Perseus,  reeling  against  the  wall 
with  a  sick  face. 

The  Master  of  Stair  came  toward  him;  his  bared  sword 
glittering  as  it  shook  to  the  quick  breathing  of  his  fury. 

"You!"  he  said  with  mad  eyes,  dark  and  narrow.  "You  — 
the  Frenchman's  spy  —  the  priest's  tool  —  the  mouthpiece 


THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

of  the  scandals  of  the  gutter  —  you,  to  drag  my  name  through 
the  mire  to  make  a  party  cry !" 

Sir  Perseus  drew  himself  together  desperately. 

"John  Dalrymple!"  he  cried.  "You  have  betrayed  yourself 
too  soon  — by  God  you  have!" 

"No,"  said  the  Master  of  Stair,  advancing  on  him.  "Think 
you  I  need  to  use  craft  —  to  get  those  papers  from  you  ? " 

"Not  while  I  live,"  answered  Sir  Perseus  firmly,  and  he 
made  a  step  toward  the  door. 

But  the  Master  of  Stair  stood  before  it. 

"Will  you  cry  for  help  ?"  he  demanded.  "It  will  make  no 
difference.  The  poor  knaves  here  cannot  aid  you  —  " 

Sir  Perseus  stepped  impulsively  back  and  drew. 

"I  think  you  threw — spy  at  me,"  he  said  through  his 
teeth.  "What  word  then  for  you  —  you  thief  of  men's  con- 
fidence?" 

On  this  last  word  their  swords  rose  and  clashed. 

"Did  you  think,"  breathed  Sir  John  passionately,  above  the 
sword  play,  "that  we  had  not  men  that  would  do  for  England 
what  you  do  for  France  —  did  you  not  reckon  that  we  might 
risk  and  dare  something  to  keep  what  we  had  now  —  as  well 
as  you  to  regain  what  you  had  lost  —  did  you  think  we  were 
fools  or  cowards  ?  You  and  your  crew  of  broken  schemers  — 
you  and  your  damned  French  king  — ah!"  He  was  rapidly 
forcing  his  adversary  back  against  the  wall.  Sir  Perseus's 
hurried  defense  could  not  cope  with  the  fury  of  his  attack; 
he  was  the  stronger  man,  the  better  swordsman ;  Sir  Perseus 
backed  desperately  into  the  window-seat. 

"Fools  we've  been — fools,"  he  muttered,  white-lipped. 

"Yes,  fools,"  flashed  the  Master  of  Stair.  "To  think  you 
could  fit  the  Pope's  yoke  about  England's  neck  again  or  give 


A  LAMPOON  ANSWERED  193 

us  back  a  King  of  follies  we  flung  to  make  Europe  sport 
—  so—" 

Their  swords  crossed  close  to  the  hilt;  Sir  Perseus  slipped 
and  fell  to  his  knees  in  the  shadows  of  the  window. 

"Sir  —  on  your  knees  —  "  said  Sir  John.  "Take  back  your 
lies  —  " 

Sir  Perseus,  desperate,  tried  to  catch  at  the  descending 
sword,  tried  to  rise,  to  cry  out,  but  Sir  John's  thrust  went 
through  his  feeble  guard  and  his  blade  quivered  at  his  throat. 

"Which  King  ?"  cried  the  Master  of  Stair.  "Which  cause  ? 
And  what  think  you  now  of  Lady  Dalrymple's  champion  ?" 

With  that  Sir  Perseus  struggled  up,  slipped  forward 
and  the  point  of  the  Master's  sword  went  a  hand's -breadth 
into  his  breast. 

He  went  heavily  onto  his  side  and  Sir  John  stepped  back, 
elate  and  passionate;  slipping  his  sword  back  with  a  lift  of  his 
shoulders. 

"Do  you  see  me,  Jacobite?"  he  said  scornfully.  "Do  you 
see  this  ?" 

He  snatched  up  the  pamphlets,  three  or  four  at  a  time, 
and  thrust  them  into  the  candle  flame.  As  they  flared  up  in  his 
hand  he  flung  them  on  the  hearth  and  set  his  heel  on  the  ashes; 
he  turned,  looked  at  the  prone  man. 

"Do  you  see  ?"  he  repeated.  "Do  you  see,  dog,  what 
I  make  of  your  work  ?" 

Sir  Perseus  made  a  faint  movement. 

The  Master  of  Stair  flung  the  last  papers  onto  the  fire, 
then  crossed  to  his  prostrate  enemy. 

"I  might  have  kept  you  for  Tyburn  —  where  your  friends 
will  go,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  him  with  the  candle  in  his 
hand.  "The  friends  whose  names  you  have  in  that  paper  —  " 


194  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

He  dropped  to  one  knee  and  turned  Sir  Perseus  over; 
at  this  the  Jacobite  moaned  and  clutched  his  fingers  together. 

Sir  John  smiled  as  he  drew  the  leathern  case  from  the 
blood-stained  shirt. 

"I  have  your  plot  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand,"  said  the 
Master  of  Stair,  and  flashed  the  candle  into  the  ashy  face  of 
Sir  Perseus,  who  stared  up  speechlessly. 

"You!"  he  said,  still  at  the  white  heat  of  his  fury,  "you 
would  sell  us  to  the  French !  You  would  utter  foul  lies  of  me 
and  mine !  My  God,  Jacobite,  I  would  you  might  live  to  be 
hanged!" 

He  crossed  to  the  table  and  opened  the  case;  it  contained 
the  three  papers  untouched;  with  flashing  eyes  he  examined 
them ;  then  called  over  his  shoulder  to  the  shadowy  window- 
seat. 

"Do  you  see  me,  Jacobite  dog  ?" 

From  the  shadow  came  a  faint  voice,  a  little  cry. 

"Delia!" 

Sir  John  stood  arrested. 

"Delia,"  whispered  the  dying  man  again. 

Sir  John  stared  in  his  direction;  his  high  flush  faded,  he 
started  a  little. 

"Of  course  —  her  brother,"  he  murmured.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  still,  gazing  at  the  dark  outline  now  still  upon  the  floor. 

"I  love  you  utterly,"  the  words  came  again  as  distinctly 
in  his  ear  as  if  she  breathed  them,  "one  creed  —  one  King  — 
one  cause  —  " 

He  roused  himself  with  a  reckless  laugh;  caught  up  the 
papers,  his  hat  and  gloves  and  flinging  open  the  window, 
stepped  out  into  the  street. 


CHAPTER    XVII 
THE  BITTERNESS  OF  DEATH 

DELIA  FEATHERSTONEHAUGH  came  home 
through  the  quiet  dark  streets  by  the  river  with 
a  heart  so  elate  that  she  heeded  nothing  of 
the  lateness  of  the  hour,  the  bitter  little  wind 
that  whistled  through  the  houses  or  the  slow  falling  snow. 

A  clock  striking  nine  told  her  that  she  had  lingered  in 
the  Abbey  longer  than  she  thought,  but  what  did  that  matter 
to-night  ?  Perseus  would  forgive  her  when  she  told  him. 

She  smiled  up  at  the  bleak  sky  and  quickened  her  pace. 

At  the  corner  of  a  street  she  noticed  an  old  beggar  huddled 
against  a  house;  she  stopped  under  the  lamp  and  took  out  her 
purse,  emptying  all  its  little  silver  into  the  astonished  beggar's 
palm ;  she  felt  that  she  had  come  into  great  riches ;  she  was  so 
happy,  the  joy  within  was  inexhaustible;  she  felt  she  could 
have  played  the  prodigal  with  it  and  still  have  the  lightest 
heart  in  the  world. 

The  old  man  called  a  garrulous  blessing  after  her  and  she 
turned  lightly  with  a  dazzling  smile,  then  hurried  on  down  the 
street. 

There  was  no  one  abroad ;  the  stillness  of  the  snow  lay  over 
everything;  every  tenth  house  alone  showed  a  lamp  and  be- 
tween the  way  was  in  perfect  darkness;  yet  Delia  found  in 
this  dreariness  only  a  strangeness  that  heightened  the  ecstasy 
of  her  divine  elation.  As  she  turned  into  the  courtyard  of  "The 

195 


196  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

Sleeping  Queen "  she  saw  Jerome  Caryl  dismounting  by  the 
light  of  the  ostler's  lanthorn. 

"Mr.  Caryl !"  she  cried  with  an  impulsive  desire  to  speak  to 
some  one. 

He  turned.  "Why,  you  are  out  late,"  he  said  abstractedly; 
he  looked  pale  and  anxious  had  Delia  had  eyes  for  that,  but 
she  followed  him  into  the  house  and  into  the  front  parlor  in  a 
smiling  silence.  A  serving  man  set  a  lamp  upon  the  table  and 
Jerome  Caryl  flung  him  his  hat  and  whip;  then  glanced  at 
Delia. 

"Why,  what  has  happened  ?"  he  asked,  struck  through  his 
absorption  with  her  transfigured  face.  She  stood  behind  the 
lamp,  her  hands  resting  on  the  edge  of  the  table  and  her  head 
a  little  thrown  back ;  her  hazel  curls  lay  over  the  open  collar  of 
her  red  coat  and  her  eyes  shone  softly  brilliant  as  misted  fires. 

"Ah,  Jerome,"  she  said,  trembling  passionately.  "Ah,  I  feel 
above  humanity  to-night !" 

He  looked  at  her,  his  melancholy  eyes  a  little  wide  with 
wonder. 

"Tell  me  — "  he  asked. 

Blushing,  breathing  fast,  she  drew  back  with  low  laughter. 
"Ah  —  not  yet  —  I  must  tell  Perseus  first. " 

"I,  too,  have  somewhat  to  tell  Perseus,"  said  Jerome 
Caryl;  he  went  to  the  door  and  called  to  the  servant.  "Is  Mr. 
Wedderburn  here  ?" 

"Yes, "came  the  answer.  "He  is,  sir,  in  the  back  parlor 
with  Sir  Perseus  — " 

Jerome  Caryl  returned  to  the  table. 

"I  have  been  detained,"  he  said.  "Berwick  had  heard  from 
Argyll  —  a  letter  in  bad  cipher  —  it  hinted  that  the  govern- 
ment knew  something. " 


THE  BITTERNESS  OF  DEATH  197 

Delia  would  not  be  disturbed  by  this  to-night  —  not  to- 
night. Misfortune  or  the  hint  of  misfortune  was  unbelievable 
to-night. 

"My  Lord  Argyll  is  over  fearful,"  she  said,  with  smiling  eyes. 

Jerome  Caryl  looked  at  her  curiously;  he  had  never  seen 
her  thus :  gloriously  smiling,  triumphantly  glowing  with  joyous 
high  spirits;  she  was  beautiful  to-night  with  the  beauty  of 
great  happiness;  she  caught  his  glance  and  laughed  and 
blushed;  her  hand  upon  the  door. 

"Perseus  will  be  a-rating  us  both  for  this  lateness," 
she  said,  her  bosom  heaving  as  if  she  had  been  swiftly 
running. 

She  opened  the  door  and  stepped  lightly  over  the  threshold, 
then  paused,  still  smiling,  but  a  little  wondering.  The  window 
opposite  was  set  wide  open;  of  the  two  candles  on  the  table 
one  had  been  blown  out  by  the  rising  wind,  the  other  had 
guttered  and  the  wax  dripped  forlornly  down  the  stick  onto 
the  table;  the  fire  had  fallen  to  a  few  smoldering  embers. 

"  There  is  no  one  here, "  said  Delia  marveling. 

Yet  the  room  did  not  seem  empty;  she  felt  that  there  was 
some  one  there,  and  peered  forward  into  the  shadows. 

"Perseus!"  she  cried. 

As  she  advanced  she  noticed  the  ashes  and  charred  scraps 
of  paper  lying  about  the  hearth :  she  stopped  abruptly. 

"Perseus !"  she  said  again,  but  her  voice  was  less  confident 
and  her  smile  had  faded;  she  looked  at  the  table  where  she 
had  left  her  brother  writing;  there  were  his  inkstand,  his  pen* 
wine  and  glasses  on  a  tray;  his  chair  pushed  back  and  another 
one  knocked  over;  over  this  hung  a  man's  riding-cloak  —  and 
not  her  brother's  — 

Whose  —  then  —  whose  ? 


198  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

She  picked  up  the  flaring  candle  and  held  it  over  the  fallen 
chair. 

Mr.  Wedderburn's  cloak  —  she  had  seen  him  in  it  an  hour 
ago. 

She  turned  across  the  room,  the  candle  shook  and  dripped 
in  her  hand. 

"Jerome!"  she  said  faintly,  "Jerome!" 

He  was  in  the  doorway. 

"Where  are  they  ?"  he  asked  swiftly. 

She  was  nearing  the  window;  the  candle  cast  a  ragged  light 
through  the  shadows. 

"Jerome  — "  she  whispered  fast  and  fearfully.  "Come  here 
—  there  is  something  here  — " 

Backing  against  the  wall  she  stared  down  at  the  window- 
seat. 

"God!"  she  shrieked  suddenly.  "It  is  a  man!"  The  candle 
clattered  from  her  slack  fingers  to  the  floor;  the  room  was  in 
complete  darkness.  Delia  turned  wildly  through  the  blackness 
and  caught  Jerome  Caryl's  arm. 

"Who  is  it  ?"  she  cried.  "Whom  do  you  think  it  can  be  ? 
Nay,  answer  me  —  could  it  be  —  he  ?  Ah,  no,  my  God  —  it 
is  not  possible  — " 

"Hush!  hush!"  said  Jerome  gently.  "I  must  get  a 
light." 

"No,  no,  I  could  not  bear  to  look,"  she  shuddered  wildly. 
"I  will  not  bear  it  —  why  should  you  ask  me  to  ?  It  was  his 
cloak—" 

Jerome  tenderly  disengaged  her  hand. 

"Take  courage,"  he  said.  "If  it  should  be  Perseus  he  may 
not  be  —  he  may  be  —  living. " 

She  let  him  go;  her  hands  fell  to  her  sides. 


THE  BITTERNESS  OF  DEATH  199 

"Perseus,"  she  echoed  vaguely.  "Do  you  think  it  might  be 
Perseus  ?" 

She  turned  and  crept  along  the  wall ;  falling  to  her  knees, 
she  put  her  hands  out  through  the  dark,  feeling  blindly  for 
what  she  knew  was  there. 

"Andrew,  Andrew,"  she  said  crazily  —  "Ah!"  She  drew 
back,  for  she  had  touched  something  —  something  soft  — 
velvet  —  a  velvet  sleeve  —  she  pressed  her  face  against  the 
wall,  her  hands  over  it,  and  her  fallen  hair,  and  when  Jerome 
reentered  with  a  lantern  she  did  not  look  up. 

He  crossed  at  once  to  the  window,  holding  the  light;  it 
revealed  her  crouching  away  with  hidden  face  and  close  beside 
her  Sir  Perseus,  full  on  his  back,  his  hands  clutched  in  his 
disordered  clothes,  as  if  his  last  act  had  been  the  defense  of 
something  he  had  hidden  in  his  breast. "Now  here  is  an  end  of 
thy  work, "  said  Jerome  quietly. 

He  set  the  lantern  on  the  window-seat  and  sinking  on  his 
knees,  lifted  Sir  Perseus  someway  from  the  floor.  "Delia  — 
bring  me  the  wine,"  he  said.  "I  think  he  still  breathes  — " 

She  slowly  turned  a  wild  face. 

"So  —  it  is  Perseus  — "  she  said,  staring. 

"Bring  the  wine  — "  said  Jerome  Caryl. 

Mechanically  and  heavily,  she  obeyed  him;  poured  it  out 
and  handed  it.  "So  it  is  Perseus,"  she  repeated. 

"I  think  we  are  betrayed,"  said  Jerome  Caryl  evenly.  "Now, 
who  was  it  ?"  He  laid  his  hand  over  the  heart  of  the  wounded 
man ;  then  forced  some  wine  between  his  lips. 

"Dead  ?"  asked  Delia.  "Is  he  dead  —  dead  ?" 

"Hush!"  whispered  Jerome  Caryl;  for  the  man  in  his  arms 
had  stirred ;  he  bent  his  head  to  catch  some  whisper. 

Sir  Perseus  moved. 


200  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Who  was  it  ?"  asked  Jerome  Caryl.  "And  the  papers  ?" 

Bending  close  he  caught  a  few  struggling  breaths.  "I  did 
my  —  best  —  I  did  — "  Then  with  the  effort  of  speaking,  the 
blood  rushed  to  the  man's  mouth,  choking  him,  his  staring 
eyes  fixed  in  an  agony  on  the  calm  face  bending  over  him. 

"The  Master  of  Stair,"  he  gasped,  with  a  ghastly  effort  and, 
rolling  over,  sank  out  of  Jerome  Caryl's  arms. 

"What  does  he  mean  ?"  sobbed  Delia.  "Has  he  been  mur- 
dered ?  What  has  happened  —  is  he  dead  ?" 

Jerome  Caryl  looked  up  at  her. 

"Yes,"  he  said  briefly,  "and  the  man  who  slew  him  has 
those  papers. " 

Delia  reeled  forward  into  the  room  and  sat  down  heavily 
at  the  table,  her  face  blank,  her  fingers  at  her  mouth;  there 
was  everything  on  the  table  as  it  had  been ;  the  familiar  things 
of  common  use  about  the  room  —  what  had  happened  that 
it  was  all  so  strange  ?  Nothing  —  what  could  happen  ? 
It  seemed  as  if  her  heart  had  stopped;  all  she  felt  was  a  little 
tired  wonder.  She  was  roused  by  a  light  touch  on  her  arm, 
and  looked  up  dully  into  Jerome  Caryl's  face. 

He  lifted  her  hand  from  the  table. 

"For  his  sake,"  he  said  very  softly,  "Call  up  your 
courage  now  — " 

She  stared  with  an  unchanged  look. 

"Is  he  dead  ?"  she  said.  "Perseus  ?" 

"God  help  thee,"  he  answered,  and  his  voice  broke  a  little. 
"We  are  all  undone  — " 

"But  —  Perseus  ?"  she  repeated.  "Is  he  dead  ?  Can't  he 
see  me  ?  Won't  he  hear  me  when  I  tell  him  —  why  —  what  was 
I  going  to  tell  him  ?  When  I  came  home  I  sang  for  joy,  oh, 
my  love,  my  love!"  She  dropped  her  head,  sobbing  heavily. 


THE  BITTERNESS  OF  DEATH  201 

"Come  and  comfort  me,"  she  cried  between  her  bitter  tears. 
"I  only  want  you  —  ah,  I  would  have  told  him  —  dead  — 
what  is  it  to  be  dead  ?" 

She  looked  up. 

Jerome  Caryl  had  left  her;  she  rose  and  crept  slowly  to 
where  her  brother  lay  with  Jerome's  handkerchief  across  his 
face. 

"Perseus  —  "  she  sobbed,  "I  was  so  happy  —  dear  —  I 
wanted  to  make  you  happy,  too  —  he  loves  me !  Perseus  — 
do  you  hear  ?" 

She  bent  lower. 

"Will  you  never  know  now  ?"  she  asked  fearfully.  "But  he 
shall  avenge  you  —  he  loves  me !  Oh,  Perseus,  cannot  the 
wonder  of  it  make  you  rise  and  speak  to  me  ? " 

A  moment  she  listened  with  stilled  breath,  then  slowly 
she  shrank  back  from  the  still  and  stiffened  figure  on  the 
floor. 

"Andrew  -  "  she  whispered  pitifully,  then  her  gaze  fell  on 
his  cloak  and  she  caught  it  up  to  her  breast  for  comfort. 
Suddenly  Jerome  Caryl  entered ;  a  little  paper  showed  in  his 
hand;  his  face  was  strongly  moved. 

"It  is  explained !"  he  cried  passionately,  "that  damned  devil 
has  undone  us  utterly  —  see  what  has  come  from  the  man 
Hunt  —  in  prison  in  Romney  —  he  contrived  to  send  this. 
Look  at  it  —  fated  fools  we  are !"  He  held  out  to  her  a  soiled 
scrap  of  crumpled  paper;  her  wild  eyes  fell  to  it  and  she  read 
in  scrawling  characters: 

"Mr.  Andrew  Wedderburn  is  the  Master  of  Stair." 

She  made  no  movement,  spoke  no  word;  Jerome  Caryl 
thought  that,  in  her  grief,  she  was  careless  as  to  what  this 
could  mean. 


202  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"He  has  those  papers,"  he  said  fiercely.  "He  must  have 
those  papers  —  Perseus  died  defending  them  — 

"Perseus  — died?"   she   said.    "He —  killed —  Perseus  ?" 

"What  else  ?"  cried  Jerome  Caryl.  "For  what  was  he  here  ? 
It  all  proves  it  —  Argyll's  warning  —  Hunt's  message  — 
and  that  — " 

He  pointed  to  Perseus  and  her  eyes  followed  his  gesture; 
she  was  standing  very  stiffly,  her  hand  resting  on  the  table 
edge. 

"It  is  a  lie,"  she  said,  "a  monstrous  lie." 

"It  is  the  bitter  truth  and  we  are  ruined." 

"No,  it  is  a  fearful  lie,"  said  Delia  slowly.  "I  know  it  is  a 
lie." 

Jerome  Caryl  made  no  answer;  he  was  bending  over  the 
charred  papers  on  the  hearth. 

"These  might  be  they,"  he  said,  looking  up  and  across  at 
the  dead  man.  "Now  what  would  I  not  give  for  one  word  from 
you  —  one  word,  yes  —  or  no  — " 

Delia  gave  no  hint;  she  stepped  forward  suddenly  and  faced 
Jerome. 

"Tell  me,  "she  asked.  "What  did  you  say  just  now  ?  What 
was  that  paper  —  show  it  to  me. "  Her  voice  sank  to  an  intense 
appeal. 

"Ah  —  show  it  to  me,"   she  cried  hoarsely. 

He  looked  at  her  in  a  quick  pity. 

"Forgive  me  —  I  have  been  blunt  —  poor  soul,  'tis  terrible 
for  you,"  he  said  gently. 

She  took  no  notice  of  his  words;  with  the  same  set  face  she 
came  closer  and  caught  hold  of  his  sleeve. 

"What  was  it  ?"  she  said  in  a  frozen  voice.  "Some  lie  rang 
in  my  head  —  something  too  horrible  —  Jerome  —  what  have 


THE  BITTERNESS  OF  DEATH  203 

I  ever  done  that  you  should  so  torture  me  —  will  you  not  tell 
me?" 

So  strange  was  her  voice,  so  disconnected  and  yet  intensely 
earnest  were  her  words,  that  Caryl  feared  for  her  reason. 

"Delia,"  he  said  pityingly.  "I  would  do  anything  to  comfort 
thee  —  yet  I  can  give  thee  no  hope  —  he  is  dead." 

"Yes !"  she  cried  frantically.  "But  who  killed  him  ?" 

"This  man  —  this  devilish  villain  —  the  Master  of  Stair 

» 

"The  Master  of  Stair!"  she  echoed,  clinging  to  him  des- 
perately. "What  has  he  to  do  with  us;  we  do  not  know  him  — 
I  have  never  seen  him  — " 

"Nay  —  he  called  himself  Andrew  Wedderburn  — " 

"No — no,"  she  whispered  thickly,  "that  is  not  true, 
and  you  shall  say  so.  My  God !  It  is  not  ture.  I  am  mad 
and  all  the  world  is  chaos  if  that  is  true  —  " 

"I  know  it  as  if  I  had  seen  him  do  it,"  he  answered.  "What 
did  your  brother  say  —  the  Master  of  Stair !" 

"No !  no !  he  did  not !"  shrieked  Delia. 

"Did  they  not  tell  us  he  was  in  this  room  with  Perseus  — 
did  he  not  quit  by  the  window  in  such  haste  that  he  left  his 
cloak  —  there  at  your  feet  ?" 

His  cloak !  His  cloak  that  she  had  clutched  to  her  heart 
for  comfort  —  this  to  be  cited  at  evidence  against  him  —  " 

"I  say  it  could  not  be!"  she  cried;  she  put  her  hands  before 
her  face  as  if  fire  had  suddenly  struck  her  blind  and  cowered 
and  shrank  together. 

Gently  Jerome  Caryl  put  her  into  the  chair  by  the  desolate 
hearth. 

"We  must  leave  here  at  once,"  he  said.  "I  must  send  a 
warning  to  Berwick  and  destroy  the  printing-press  and  all 


204  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

papers  — there   is  a  kingdom    hanging  on    our  prudence 
now." 

She  looked  at  him  blankly. 

"The  Master  of  Stair, "  she  muttered.  "The  Master  of  Stair. " 

She  drew  herself  together  in  the  chair  and,  half-swooning, 
dreams  mounted  to  her  brain;  reality  ebbed  away;  she  was 
conscious  of  feeling  cold  and  yet  when  she  put  her  hand 
to  her  forehead  she  seemed  to  touch  fire;  she  thought  the 
Abbey  was  about  her,  the  sunlight  at  her  feet,  and  —  he  — 
stood  on  the  bishop's  grave  —  "call  me  John,"  he  said  - 
Sir  John   Dalrymple,   Master  of  Stair  —  she  repeated  the 
names  to  herself  —  it  was  written  in  large  characters :  "Mr. 
Wedderburn  is  the  Master  of  Stair"  —  how  they  lied !  Where 
was  Jerome  Caryl  ? 

There  were  people  passing,  carrying  something  —  it  was 
the  Abbey  and  a  funeral  —  she  was   so    happy  that  she 
could  weep  for  them  —  death  was  curious  —  irrevocable  — 
irrevocable. 

It  was  Perseus  they  carried  past.  They  came  so  heavily  - 
so  slowly;  one  of  his  hands  hung  out  and  touched  the  floor. 

Perseus  —  dead. 

She  rose  up  and  looked  at  him. 

"Dead!  Who  slew  him?" 

Prom  infinite  distance  seemed  to  come  the  answer 

"The  Master  of  Stair." 

"Dead !  my  brother  —  who  killed  him  ?" 

"The Master  of  Stair." 

She  fell  face  downwards  across  the  chair  and  still  through 
her  unconsciousness  came: 

"Who  killed  him  ?" 

"The  Master  of  Stair." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
AN  INNOCENT  BETRAYAL 

VISCOUNT  STAIR  listened  with  an  amused  smile 
to  the  heavy  footsteps  pacing  about  overhead ;  he 
drew  himself  closer  over  the  fire  and  surveyed 
his  lean  fingers  with  eyes  twinkling  unpleasant- 
ly. His  son  was  evidently  in  an  ill-humor;  his  restlessness 
had  followed  on  a  message  from  my  Lord  Breadalbane; 
something  was  amiss  in  Scotland. 

So  the  Viscount  concluded ;  he  made  no  attempt  to  discover 
what  had  occurred,  but  waited  patiently,  hugging  his  amuse- 
ment, confident  that  his  son  would  not  leave  him  long  out 
of  his  councils.  And  even  sooner  than  he  had  expected  the 
door  was  flung  open  and  Sir  John  entered,  stormy  and  frown- 
ing. 

"Ill  news  from  Scotland  ?"  asked  the  Viscount  indifferently. 

His  son  gave  him  a  look. 

"The  Macdonalds  have  taken  the  oaths,"  he  answered 
briefly. 

"Ah  —  more  prudence  among  these  savages  than  one 
might  have  expected, "  remarked  the  Viscount. 

"Their  prudence  will  not  avail !"  cried  Sir  John. 

"They  did  not  come  in  till  the  sixth  of  January. " 

"How  ill-considered !"  said  the  Viscount. 

Sir  John  sat  down  heavily. 

"Breadalbane  has  sent  me  the  whole  tale,"  he  said.  "It 

205 


206  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

seems  Makian  took  fright  when  he  saw  the  others  going  in 
and  set  out  for  Fort  William  to  take  the  oaths  —  of  course 
(as  the  old  fool  fortunately  did  not  know)  the  oaths  must  be 
administered  to  a  magistrate,  Hill,  I  said  Hill  was  untrust- 
worthy —  Hill  gave  him  a  letter  to  the  sheriff  of  Argyll- 
shire. Makian  started  for  Inverary,  but  did  not  reach  it  till 
the  sixth  —  God  knows  why. " 

"Probably  through  making  himself  drunk  at  every  hut  he 
passed,"  remarked  the  Viscount. 

"He  pleaded  the  excuse  of  heavy  snow-storms,"  said  Sir 
John,  "and  the  sheriff  was  actually  moved  by  his  whinings 
to  administer  the  oath." 

"It  will  make  the  Macdonalds  feel  secure,"  remarked  his 
father.  "I  think  that  is  fortunate." 

"But  the  sheriff  has  sent  a  letter  to  the  council  at  Edin- 
burgh with  an  account  of  the  whole  transaction. " 

"Need  it  ever  reach  them  ?"  asked  the  Viscount.  "I  think 
if  it  is  privately  submitted  to  me  I  can  cancel  it  —  what  is 
an  oath  of  surrender  taken  on  the  sixth  ?  Nothing. " 

Sir  John  rose. 

"It  shall  make  no  difference,"  he  said  gloomily.  "I  will 
make  an  example  of  them,  whether  they  took  the  oath  or  no 
—  but  this  must  be  kept  from  the  King. " 

"Which  reminds  me,"  interrupted  the  Viscount  easily, 
"what  of  those  Jacobite  papers  you  were  to  put  before  His 
Majesty  ?  It  is  a  good  many  days  since  you  announced  them 
as  in  your  hands." 

Sir  John's  blue  eyes  lifted  steadily.  "3  am  waiting  for  the 
conspirators  so  embroil  themselves  further, "  he  said  thought- 
fully. 

The  Viscount  shrugged  his  shoulders. 


AN  INNOCENT  BETRAYAL        207 

"You  are  giving  them  a  chance  to    leave  the  kingdom." 

"You  mistake,  my  lord  —  I  am  having  them  watched  and 
Hunt's  cottage  no  longer  stands  their  refuge."  He  rose  and 
abruptly  left  the  room. 

Hardly  had  he  gone  before  an  inner  door  was  opened  and 
Lady  Dalrymple  entered. 

The  Viscount  gave  her  a  sharp  look. 

"One  might  be  tempted  to  think  that  you  played  the  spy, 
madam,"  he  said  dryly. 

"I  ?"  she  went  white,  but  glanced  at  him  scornfully. 
"Can  /  spy  in  my  husband's  house  ?" 

"I  grant,  madam,  that  your  means  may  not  equal  your 
will,"  he  answered,  "yet  John  is  reckless — careless — " 

Lady  Dalrymple's  great  soft  eyes  widened.  "Wherefore 
should  I  spy  upon  my  husband's  affairs  ?"  she  said  coldly. 
"I  am  no  politician." 

"You  are  a  woman,"  smiled  the  Viscount.  "I  think  you 
have  some  curiosity." 

"Believe  me  —  none  in  these  affairs  of  blood  —  " 

He  turned  on  her  with  a  soft  quickness.  "How  do  you 
know  that  they  are  'affairs  of  blood'  ?"  he  asked. 

She  stood  silent  with  a  frightened  face. 

"Take  care,"  said  the  Viscount,  rising.  "If  John  is  impru- 
dent, he  is  also  violent  —  the  matters  that  he  deals  in  will 
bear  no  meddling  of  yours. " 

She  shrank  away  from  him. 

"Why  do  you  so  goad  me,  my  lord  ?"  she  said  in  a  trembling 
defiance.  "I  came  here  to  avoid  my  husband,  since  he  declared 
the  sight  of  me  irks  him  —  and  then  you  turn  on  me  —  what 
are  you  trying  to  drive  me  to  between  you  ?  " 

"Merely    prudence,"    answered    the    Viscount.    "A    little 


208  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

prudence  and  discretion."  And  he  left  the  room  with  an  in- 
describable air  of  cold  avoidance. 

Lady  Dalrymple  looked  after  him  with  fear  and  loathing, 
then  sank  down  into  the  chair  by  the  fire  and  gazed  listlessly 
before  her,  her  hands  clasped  on  her  knees;  her  full  pink 
gown,  her  undressed  pale  hair  under  the  white  lace  knotted 
at  her  chin,  the  muslin  fichu  across  her  bosom  and  the  glitter- 
ing gold  and  purple  flowers  on  her  white  satin  overskirt, 
made  her  a  figure  of  brilliant  fairness  in  the  somber  gorgeous 
room. 

The  diamonds  in  her  ears  winked  in  the  firelight  and  the 
paste  buckles  of  her  red  silk  shoes  shone  beneath  her  skirt; 
round  her  neck  hung  a  broad  mauve  ribbon,  the  end  of  which 
was  tucked  into  the  gold  lace  of  her  bodice. 

She  sat  so,  very  still,  with  the  firelight  glowing  on  her  soft 
face,  till  she  was  disturbed  by  the  great  doors  being  opened; 
she  turned  in  her  seat  with  a  little  shrinking  movement. 

The  servant  was  ushering  in  a  lady,  who  hesitated  on  the 
threshold  and  said  something  in  a  low  voice  to  the  man  who 
answered  with  a  bow  and  a  stately  request  for  her  to  be 
seated. 

Upon  that  the  lady  entered,  and  the  servant  left,  closing 
the  door. 

Lady  Dalrymple  looked  at  the  unexpected  visitor  timidly 
and  rose  with  an  instinctive  courtliness.  The  lady  had 
paused  in  the  center  of  the  room;  the  snow  lay  over  her  dark 
habit  and  in  the  full  curls  of  her  hair. 

ttl  pray  you  do  not  let  me  trouble  you,"  she  said  in  a 
manner,  unnaturally  quiet  and  composed.  "My  business, 
madam,  is  with  Sir  John  Dalrymple  —  I  have  been  asked  to 
await  him  here." 


AN  INNOCENT  BETRAYAL  209 

"Will  you  not  sit  down,"  said  Lady  Dalrymple  gently.  "I 
do  not  know  your  name,  but  you  are  very  welcome. " 

She  moved  her  seat  from  the  fire  and  in  a  winning  way 
indicated  a  chair  opposite;  but  the  coldness  of  the  other's 
face  and  voice  did  not  relax. 

"My  name  is  Delia  Featherstonehaugh,"  she  said.  "And 
I  am  neither  cold  nor  tired  —  only  impatient,  madam,  to 
get  my  errand  done." 

Lady  Dalrymple  shrank  under  the  rebuff;  her  soft  eyes 
took  in  the  stranger;  she  noted  the  set  face,  the  proud,  con- 
tained mouth,  the  defiantly  upheld  head,  the  girl's  whole 
carriage  as  if  disdaining  everything  about  her. 

"Are  you  in  trouble  ?"  she  asked  timidly. 

Delia's  brown  eyes  swept  over  her. 

"No,"  she  answered  coldly,  then  with  sudden  force.  "Yes  — 
in  terrible  trouble  —  but  in  want,  madam,  of  neither  pity 
nor  comfort." 

"Alas!"  said  Lady  Dalrymple.  "I  would  not  so  repulse 
either  were  they  offered  me  —  and  do  not  you  be  hard  to 
me  —  for  I  would  help  you  an'  I  could. " 

"Madam,  you  cannot  —  in  myself  alone  lies  help  —  and 
you  — do  you  lack  pity  or  sympathy  ?"  The  tone  was  coldly 
contemptuous,  but  Lady  Dalrymple  answered  gently. 

"I  did  not  say  so,  madam  —  I  say  I  would  not  refuse 
them." 

"Madam  —  "  said  Delia.  "Who  are  you  ?" 

"I  am  Lady  Dalrymple,"  was  the  quiet  answer,  "and  at 
your  service. " 

Delia  drew  herself  together  and  held  her  head  still  higher. 

"I  want  not  your  help,"  she  said  coldly.  "Why  was  I 
brought  here  —  I  did  not  come  to  see  you, " 


210  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"My  husband,"  said  Lady  Dalrymple  gently,  "is  full 
of  affairs  —  you  must  pardon  him  if  he  keeps  you 
waiting. " 

Delia  caught  at  the  chair  by  which  she  stood. 

"Your  husband,"  she  repeated  under  her  breath;  and  at 
sight  of  her  wild  white  face  the  other  advanced  a  step. 

"Madam  — did  you  speak  ?" 

Delia  clenched  her  hands  and  turned  her  head  with  a  quick 
look  of  loathing. 

"I  said  naught,"  she  answered. 

Lady  Dalrymple  considered  her;  she  was  interested,  sure 
that  beneath  her  proud  containment  this  girl  was  in  deep 
distress,  and  she  pitied  her. 

"Come  you  on  matters  of  politics  ?"  she  asked. 

Standing  very  erect  and  cold,  Delia  answered: 

"Yes." 

"For  Scottish  affairs  ?"  said  Lady  Dalrymple. 

"Yes, "  said  Delia  with  wild  eyes.  "Yes. " 

Lady  Dalrymple  again  studied  her  a  moment. 

"Alas !  A  matter  of  life  —  or  death  ?"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  answered  Delia  hoarsely. 

"Poor  soul!"  cried  Lady  Dalrymple.  "Indeed,  you  must  tell 
it  me  —  " 

At  the  sympathy  in  her  voice  and  face  Delia  turned  in  an 
agony  that  almost  broke  beyond  control. 

"You  must  not  ask  me,"  she  panted.  "I  pray  you  that  you 
do  not  question  me." 

"But  I  might  serve  you,"  said  Lady  Dalrymple.  The  fair 
face  framed  in  the  lace  scarce  was  grieved,  tender,  a  little 
wondering. 

"Doubtless,"  answered  Delia,  forcing  back  her  unnatural 


AN  INNOCENT  BETRAYAL  211 

calm,  "Sir  John's  wife  would  have  great  influence  with  her 
lord  —  yet  will  I  even  do  without  her  favor. " 

And  she  smiled  very  bitterly. 

A  fine  flush  crept  over  Lady  Dalrymple's  face:  "You  are 
hard, "she  said. 

"Maybe,"  replied  Delia.  "I  am  different  of  late  — perhaps 
I  am  hard,  I  do  not  know." 

She  caught  the  other  woman's  eyes  on  her  and  flushed, 
then  broke  desperately  and  swiftly  into  speech. 

"I  have  come  to  discover  if  the  Macdonalds  of  Glencoe 
have  taken  the  oaths  to  the  government. " 

"Ah,"  said  Lady  Dalrymple.  "You  have  friends  among 
them  ?  These  Macdonalds  —  who  are  they  ?" 

Delia  bent  her  head. 

"I  wish  to  know  if  they  are  safe  or  no  from  the  vengeance 
of  —  the  government. " 

Lady  Dalrymple  sank  into  her  chair  again,  a  flutter  of 
ribbons  and  lace,  her  blue  eyes  held  a  curious  look.  "If  they 
have  testified  allegiance,  t  hey  are  beyond  the  law, "  she  said. 
"So  I  have  heard;  I  know  little  of  it. " 

"  'Tis,  madam,  what  I  which  to  discover:  the  Secretary  for 
Scotland  must  know. " 

Lady  Dalrymple  lifted  her  lovely  hand  and  dropped  it 
again. 

"He  knows,"  she  said. 

"Well,"  cried  Delia,  "I  want  to  save  those  people.  If  they, 
despite  all  warnings,  have  remained  obdurate,  there  will  be 
a  horried  vengeance  taken,  you  know,  belike  ?" 

"I  know,"  said  Lady  Dalrymple. 

"But  if  they  have  taken  the  oaths  —  and  it  is  blown 
abroad  enough  —  no  one,  for  shame,  could  touch  them. " 


THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Do  you  think  Sir  John  will  answer  you  ?" 

"I  will  essay  it,"  answered  Delia. 

A  little  silence  fell;  an  unusual  look  of  resolution  came  into 
Lady  Dalrymple's  gentle  face  as  she  gazed  into  the  fire; 
Delia,  standing  with  her  hands  clasped  on  the  chair-back 
gazed  upon  her  fairness  with  sick  aversion  that  mounted  to 
her  brain  and  set  her  mouth  into  lines  of  cruelty.  At  last,  with 
a  shiver  of  satin,  Lady  Dalrymple  moved  and  looked  at  the 
other. 

"The  Macdonalds  have  taken  the  oaths,"  she  said  quietly, 
"but  it  will  be  suppressed.  That  is  Viscount  Stair's  work  — • 
and  the  Earl  of  Breadalbane's. " 

"I  thought  so!"  cried  Delia  fiercely.  "The  Viscount's  work, 
you  say!  I  think  Sir  John  has  had  a  hand  in  it." 

"I  will  not  discuss  my  husband's  politics,"  interrupted 
Lady  Dalrymple.  "I  tell  you  this  because  I  would  prevent 
an  injustice  and  a  crime.  It  is  true,  and  the  Macdonalds 
are  doomed,  if  you  can  save  them  —  do  so  —  " 

"If  I  can  save  them!"  flashed  Delia,  "I  tell  you  this  shall 
be  over  all  England  to-morrow!" 

Lady  Dalrymple  rose  and  came  toward  her. 

"So  you  can  save  your  friends, "  she  said  gently. 

"Will  you  not  thank  me  a  little  ?" 

Delia  stared  at  her. 

"Why  should  I  thank  you  ?"  she  demanded. 

"For  what  Sir  John  would  not  have  told  you,"  was  the 
answer.  "This  news  should  mean  much  to  you. " 

"I  do  thank  you,  madam,"  said  Delia  coldly,  drawing 
back. 

Lady  Dalrymple  came  nearer,  leaned  forward  over  the 
table. 


AN  INNOCENT  BETRAYAL  213 

"Ah,  sit  down,"  she  said,  sweetly  and  sadly.  "I  have  few 
to  talk  to  —  " 

"Wherefore,  madani  ?"  demanded  Delia. 

"Because  —  because  it  is  my  will,  I  mean,  they  are  all 
employed  here  —  " 

She  put  her  hands  in  a  troubled  manner  to  her  heart  and 
her  restless  fingers  pulled  the  mauve  ribbon;  a  closed  gold 
miniature  case  fell  lightly  onto  the  table. 

Lady  Dalrymple  took  it  up  in  silence  and  looked  at  it 
with  the  air  of  some  one  who  holds  something  very  precious, 
and  who,  wishful  to  display  it,  yet  dreads  a  scornful  reception. 
She  fingered  the  case  a  moment  in  silence  and  took  a 
timid  glance  at  Delia,  who  gazed  blankly  with  a  troubled 
face. 

Lady  Dalrymple  encouraged  by  her  look,  snapped  open 
the  case  and  held  it  out  hesitating,  pleading,  making  a  great 
effort  to  be  calm. 

"My  children,"  she  said. 

Delia  gave  one  glance,  then  motioned  it  away  with  a 
gesture  of  horror. 

"How  like,"  she  said  fearfully. 

"How  like  whom  ?"  asked  Lady  Dalrymple  startled. 
"They  are  beautiful  faces  —  are  they  not  ?  Why  do  you  turn 
away  ?  I  crave  people  to  gaze  on  them  —  " 

"They  are  like  — Sir  John,"  faltered  Delia  with  quivering 
lips.  "It  startled  me  —  " 

"Why  — you  have  seen  him  ?" 

"Yes." 

Lady  Dalrymple  frowned.  "I  do  not  think  they  are  so 
like,"  she  said,  and  shutting  the  case,  put  it  back  into  her 
bosom. 


214  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

Delia  uttered  a  hard  laugh. 

"  'Tis  the  same  face,"  she  said  cruelly. 

The  other  laughed  at  her. 

"We  are  well  hated,"  she  said  in  a  changed  tone.  "I  think 
he  has  a  name  well  loathed  —  but  remember,  whatever  he 
had  planned  against  the  Macdonalds,  statecraft  well 
requires  it  —  and  I  have  given  you  the  power  to  save 
them." 

Delia  made  no  answer;  Lady  Dalrymple  stood  by  the 
table,  making  no  further  attempt  to  speak;  the  silence  was 
broken  by  the  quiet  entry  of  a  servant. 

"Sir  John  will  see  you  now,  madam,"  he  said,  and  to  Lady 
Dalrymple  he  gave  a  letter. 

"Sent  by  Mr.  Wharton's  lackey,  my  lady." 

She  took  it  absently;  her  eyes  turned  wistfully  to  Delia, 
but  she,  with  the  slightest  cold  inclination  of  her  head,  left 
the  room  without  a  word. 

Lady  Dalrymple,  chilled  and  repulsed,  even  more  lonely 
than  before  this  stranger's  coming,  sat  down  again  by  the 
fire  and  the  tears  welled  up  into  her  large  eyes. 

Yet  she  was  glad  that  she  had  spoken  about  the 
Macdonalds;  something  she  knew  and  something  she 
guessed  of  the  plans  being  laid  for  their  destruction, 
and  it  had  troubled  her;  now  this  girl  could  see  to  it  that 
they  were  saved. 

But  she  might  have  to  pay  the  price;  she  remembered 
the  Viscount's  last  words,  "John  is  reckless  and  violent,"  still 
she  was  glad  of  what  she  had  done. 

Her  glance  fell  to  Mr.  Wharton's  letter;  she  broke  the  seal 
and  opened  it;  spread  it  out  in  the  fading  light  of  the  winter 
afternoon  and  read : 


AN  INNOCENT  BETRAYAL        215 

January  10,  1692. 
MY  LADY, 

I  have  been  away,  or  I  had  sooner  answered  your  letter,  which 
giveth  me  surprise  as  well  as  pain.  You  ask  me  to  no  longer  attend 
you  at  your  house,  as  Sir  John  speaketh  of  me  with  increased  dislike 
and  cannot  bear  even  the  mention  of  my  name.  I  cannot  understand 
that  you  should  pay  any  attention  to  a  silly  prejudice  unworthy  of  a 
man  of  sense.  Sir  John  is  at  full  liberty  to  tell  me  himself  what  he 
mislikes  in  my  conduct,  which  never  (as  you  can  bear  me  witness) 
has  been  in  any  way  offensive  to  him  or  wanting  in  the  respect  that  I, 
in  common  with  every  Whig,  have  for  his  abilities.  If  any  fancied 
affront  irks  him,  he  knows  how  to  obtain  satisfaction,  and  I  trust  that 
he  will  either  take  this  course  or  meet  me  with  the  courtesy  that  I 
shall  always  be  ready  to  offer  him  and  that  you  will  not  suffer  his 
whim  to  interrupt  a  friendship  that  I  have  the  vanity  to  believe  is  not 
displeasing  to  you,  and  is  the  greatest  of  honors  to  your  ladyship's 
humble  servant, 

THOMAS  WHABTON. 

Lady  Dalrymple  folded  the  letter  away  slowly;  she  was 
not  clever  at  reading  between  the  lines,  and  fine  phrasing  a 
little  confused  her;  but  she  caught  the  spirit  of  the  writer;  she 
saw  that  it  only  needed  a  word  from  her  for  Tom  Wharton 
to  challenge  her  husband  on  the  first  excuse  that  came.  It 
was  a  curious  thought;  Tom  Wharton  had  fought  no  duel 
in  which  he  had  not  killed  or  (through  good  nature)  disarmed 
his  man;  his  perfect  swordsmanship  was  a  charm  that  kept 
men  civil  to  him  through  all  the  offenses  of  his  lax  and  lazy 
life,  since  a  duel  with  him  was  death  or  the  disgrace  of  mercy 
given;  she  knew  her  husband's  temper  too  well  to  think  he 
would  accept  the  last. 

She  sat  thinking  quietly;  she  liked  Tom  Wharton;  he  was 
good-natured,  pleasant-mannered,  open-hearted,  open-hand- 
ed, he  treated  her  with  a  flattering  deference;  though  they 


216  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

had  never  exchanged  confidences,  she  felt  he  understood  a 
little  of  her  position ;  Harry  had  liked  him. 

She  read  his  letter  through  again;  her  heart  swelled  at  the 
thought  that  she  was  forbidden  the  only  pleasant  company 
of  which  she  knew;  she  struggled  for  a  moment  with  rebellion 
and  wild  thoughts  of  swords  behind  Montague  House,  of 
freedom  and  release  —  then  she  sat  down  to  the  Viscount's 
desk  and  wrote  to  Tom  Wharton  a  gentle  letter  in  which  she 
desired  to  be  left  to  obey  Sir  John's  wishes,  however  unreason- 
able they  might  seem. 

She  sealed  it  slowly  and  with  a  sigh. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
THE  PACT 

DELIA  heard  the  door   closed  behind  her  and 
lifted  her  eyes.     It  was  a  beautiful  room,  all 
carving  and  gilt  with  heavy  hangings  of  stamped 
leather  and  embroidered  satin;    the  chimney- 
piece  was    of   massive  white  marble,  carved  with  fauns  and 
grapes,  above  it  a  vast  mirror  reached  to  the  ceiling;   resting 
against  the  chimneypiece  stood  the  Master  of  Stair. 

His  back  was  to  the  door,  but  Delia  could  see  his  face  in 
the  mirror;  he  was  looking  down,  nor  did  he  turn  or  move 
at  her  entrance. 

He  was  quietly  dressed,  yet  there  was  ostentation  about  his 
person,  that  ostentation  from  which  he  was  never  entirely  free ; 
he  wore  many  jewels;  he  was  like  his  house,  of  a  cold,  splendid 
appearance,  a  showy  somberness,  the  magnificence 'of  gaiety 
with  no  heart  behind  it;  and  as  his  correct  manner  often  had 
an  underlying  brutality  in  it,  so  his  beauty  owned  a  lurking 
coarseness  that  only  the  usual  coldness  of  his  demeanor 
concealed. 

But  now,  as  he  looked  down  and  she  stared  at  his  face  in  the 
mirror,  she  saw  the  expression  of  it;  a  heavy  sullenness  a 
fierce  impatience  barely  under  control. 

He  stood  perfectly  still,  as  if  he  did  not  know  that  she  was 
there,  or  was  indifferent  to  her  presence,  and  she  remained  a 
foot  inside  the  door,  staring  at  him. 

217 


218  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

At  last  he  lifted  his  eyes  and  the  blue  of  them  was  painfully 
vivid  in  his  flushed  face;  he  looked  at  her  image  in  the  mirror 
and  there  their  glance  met. 

Then  he  turned  slowly. 

"It  is  strange  for  you  to  come  here,"  he  said  moodily.  "I 
wonder,  madam,  what  you  can  have  to  say  to  me  ?" 

"Do  you  wonder,  Sir  John  Dalrymple  ?"  answered  Delia 
wth  a  white  hard  face.  "I  come  to  ask  you  if  you  have  those 
papers. " 

He  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"Have  you  those  papers  ?"  she  repeated,  holding  her- 
self very  still.  "We  could  not  tell  —  there  was  ash  on  the 
floor  —  that  night  —  of  burnt  paper  —  " 

For  all  her  terrible  effort  at  calm,  her  voice  failed  her; 
Sir  John  spoke  abruptly : 

"I  have  all  the  information;  all  the  papers  relating  to  your 
plot  against  His  Majesty,"  he  said.  "I  thought  you  knew." 

"I  guessed,"  answered  Delia  slowly.  "And  you  have  not 
used  your  information  yet  ?" 

"Not  yet." 

"I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  give  those  papers  back  to  me," 
she  said  faintly. 

The  Master  of  Stair  smiled. 

"You  are  very  confident,  my  fair  Jacobite,"  he  said  dis- 
dainfully. "Those  papers  were  not  lightly  got  —  " 

She  lifted  her  eyes  with  more  steadiness. 

"No,"  she  said,  "you  paid  deep  enough  for  them,  did  you 
not,  Sir  John  Dalrymple  ?  You  stopped  at  nothing." 

"I  do  for  my  cause  what  you  do  for  yours,"  he  answered 
coldly.  "And  this  time  I  win." 

"Still  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  give  me  back  those  papers. " 


THE  PACT 

"You  are  astonishingly  simple,"  said  the  Master  of  Stan*. 

"So  you  have  found  me — have  you  not?"  she  answered 
wildly,  "a  very  fool,  Sir  John  Dalrymple,  to  follow  once  the 
very  careless  lifting  of  your  finger,  and  fool  enough  now  to 
think  you  have  some  honor  —  some  feeling  —  some  pity  for 
what  you  have  so  wantonly  destroyed.  Those  papers  stand 
for  the  lives  —  the  honor  —  of  thousands,  and  you  stole 
them." 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  side  and  came  a  step  forward. 

"By  all  the  lies  you  told  me,"  she  said,  "give  back  to  me 
what  you  stole." 

"The  papers  ?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"My  brother  — "  said  Delia,  "is  not  in  your  power  to  re- 
store —  he  is  dead  — " 

"His  was  a  dangerous  trade,"  returned  the  Master  of  Stair 
gloomily.  "I  spared  him  the  gallows." 

Delia  stared  at  him ;  the  words  she  had  been  forming  seemed 
forgotten  on  her  lips. 

"Why  did  you  kill  him  ?"  she  asked  abruptly. 

Sir  John  suddenly  moved  from  the  hearth. 

"We  talk  at  strange  cross  purposes,"  he  said.  "Your  brother 
insulted  me — I  did  not  murder  him,"  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  "We  all  take  our  chances  —  I  ran  some  risk  to  gain 
my  end  — and  did  more  mischief  than  I  need,  maybe,"  he 
looked  at  her  curiously.  "I've  earned  your  curse — have  I 
not?" 

He  made  a  little  reckless  movement  with  his  hand  as  if  he 
accepted  it  and  flung  it  off. 

"I  have  no  curse  for  you,  nor  reproaches, "  answered  Delia 
in  an  intense  voice.  "I  have  not  come  to  call  you  what  I  might. 
What  is  done  is  done  —  and  I  have  lived  through  it.  I 


220  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

have  come  to  ask  your  mercy  —  because  of  what  once  you 
said  — " 

She  stopped,  he  looked  at  her,  saying  nothing,  with  a  great 
effort  she  went  on : 

"Undo  a  little  of  what  you  have  done  —  give  me  back  those 
papers  — " 

"It  is  impossible,"  he  said.  "Impossible,  you  may  say  what 
you  will  of  me  — " 

"I  have  nothing  to  say,"  she  answered  unsteadily.  "I  have 
dangerous  stuff  in  me  —  I  know  it  now.  I  shall  not  use  a 
woman's  means  if  you  push  me  too  far  —  I  have  it  in  me  to 
pull  your  fortunes  about  your  feet  if  you  should  prove  too 
merciless  — " 

He  smiled  imperiously. 

"I  think  you,  too,  did  some  lying,"  he  said.  "You  used 
strong  words  to  one  you  talk  now  of  ruining  —  and  half  I 
thought  you  did  not  mean  — " 

But  Delia  interrupted  him.  "You  lie  now,"  she  said  in  a 
stifled  voice.  "You  know  I  meant  it,  meant  it  so  that  it  touched 
you  even  through  your  falsity. " 

"Believe  I  was  not  insincere  —  only  reckless  of  the  future," 
he  answered  in  a  lower  voice.  "I  did  not  play  with  you  — " 

"I  need  no  explanations,"  she  cried  passionately.  "Have  I 
not  said  that  I  have  lived  through  it  ?  Can  I  not  also  be  reck- 
less and  thank  you  for  the  pleasant  passing  of  an  hour  —  can 
I  not,  too,  forget  ?" 

"I  have  not  forgotten,"  said  the  Master  of  Stair.  "Should 
I  have  seen  you  now  if  I  had  ?  I  make  no  excuses.  What  I 
have  done  I  have  done,  but  I  have  not  forgotten. " 

"No,"  answered  Delia.  "I  do  not  think  you  can,  and  so  I 
come  to  you  to  ask  your  mercy. "  She  moved  a  step  toward 


THE  PACT 

him,  her  head  held  back,  her  face  composed  and  very  pale 
in  the  shadow  of  her  hat. 

"Ye  are  changed,"  he  said  somberly. 

"I  think  I  died  and  have  arisen  again,"  said  Delia.  "I  am  so 
changed  I  do  not  know  myself;  if  I  had  been  not  changed 
should  I  be  here  now  ?  Will  you  give  me  those  papers  ?" 

"No,"  he  said.  "No.  Though  I  would  do  something  for  you, 
Delia,  still  not  that." 

"Do  you  dare  to  use  my  name  ?"  she  cried. 

"Did  I  not  dare  more  than  that  ?"  he  answered  with  a  little 
smile.  "Did  I  not  dare  to  risk  your  lifetime  hate  to  win  you 
for  that  one  hour  —  and  you  were  won  —  though  you  curse 
me  threefold. " 

"Why  did  you  do  it  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  do  not  know."  He  gazed  upon  her  moodily.  "It  is  the 
Dalrymple  way  to  curse  all  they  touch;  yet  I  did  not  lie  to 
you.  What  I  said  I  meant  —  though  now  the  moment  is 
past." 

He  broke  off  staring  at  her.  "Why  did  you  come  here  ?"  he 
said  after  a  moment. 

"Have  I  not  told  you  ?  To  obtain  those  papers  —  have  you 
read  them  ?" 

"No,"  he  spoke  abstractedly,  his  gaze  as  if  his  mind  was 
upon  her  and  not  on  what  she  said:  "I  have  not  broken  the 
seals ;  they  are  for  the  King. " 

"You  cannot  do  it,"  she  cried.  "Have  you  not  conquered 
us  ?  You  know  that  your  spies  watch  and  track  us  day  and 
night;  you  know  that  we  are  now  powerless — disarmed 
—  is  it  needful  to  have  blood  ?  Must  you  know  these 
names  ?" 

"I  guess  them  now,"  he  said.    "I  know  the  smooth-faced 


222  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

lords  who  eat  our  bread  and  betray  us,  and  by  Heaven,  this 
time  I  will  have  them  exposed !" 

"Not  lords  alone,"  she  answered,  breathing  hard,  "but 
many  folk  throughout  the  kingdom  have  signed  that  paper  — 
all  my  friends  —  they  are  helpless  now  —  helpless.  If  you 
put  that  paper  before  the  Prince  you  will  bring  to  the  block 
and  the  gallows  thousands,  yea,  there  are  more  in  this  than 
ye  wot  of  —  'twill  be  the  bloody  Assizes  again.  Your  Prince 
cannot  and  will  not  overlook  it;  but  'tis  in  your  power  to  be 
merciful  to  burn  those  papers  unread  and  never  know  the 
names. " 

She  stopped  as  though  she  had  put  her  whole  energy  into 
her  words  and  it  had  suddenly  gone  out  like  a  sinking  flame ; 
she  put  her  fingers  to  her  lips  and  stared  at  him  over  them. 

"It  is  a  great  chance  for  you,"  she  said  very  faintly. 

"A  chance  —  ?"  repeated  the  Master  of  Stair. 

"Of  atonement,"  said  Delia,  and  her  wild  brown  eyes 
flashed  such  a  glance  of  proud  misery  that  he  almost  winced. 

He  was  fingering  with  a  lazy  hand  the  wreaths  that  crowned 
the  faun  on  the  marble  beside  him;  he  dropped  his  glance  and 
again  there  came  over  his  face  that  curious  expression  of 
contained  sullenness  and  defiance. 

Delia  waited  in  the  center  of  the  room;  she  could  not  look 
at  him;  her  gaze  traveled  to  the  long  windows  and  the  cheer- 
less prospect  of  bare  trees  without. 

"Sir  John  Dalrymple,"  she  said  at  last.  "Will  you  do  the 
merciful  thing  ?" 

He  lifted  his  head;  his  face  was  flushed,  his  eyebrows  drawn 
together. 

"I  will  not  be  a  perfect  fool,"  he  said  haughtily.  "All  they 
who  were  in  this  plot  shall  pay  for  it  as  certainly  - 


THE  PACT  223 

"As  you  shall  pay  for  what  you  do,  Sir  John, "  she  interrupt- 
ed. "As  their  crimes  of  loyalty  and  courage  in  a  losing  cause 
shall  be  punished  —  so  shall  lying  treachery  and  false-heart- 
edness  and  hard  cruelty  be  repaid  — "  she  laughed  suddenly. 
"You  in  the  judgment  seat  — you !"  she  cried,  with  her  hand 
to  her  side. 

"Yes  — I,"  he  said  imperiously.  "When  your  Jacobites  can 
mount  it  let  them  judge  me  —  meanwhile  —  I  think  he  who 
can  hold  the  sword  wields  the  sword  —  as  I  shall  do. " 

She  turned  from  him. 

"I  have  no  more  to  say,"  she  said. 

"Nor  I, "  he  answered. 

With  her  hand  still  at  her  side  she  crossed  to  the  door;  there 
she  stopped  and  turned  to  face  him. 

"I  was  wrong,"  she  said  steadily.  "I  have  something  more 
to  say  —  there  are  those  whom  I  can  save  without  asking 
your  mercy,  the  mercy  that  you  have  not,  Sir  John. " 

He  looked  at  her  over  his  shoulder. 

"By  to-night,"  continued  Delia,  "all  London  will  know  that 
you  plan  to  massacre  the  Macdonalds  of  Glencoe. " 

The  Master  of  Stair  swung  round. 

"It  shall  also  be  known,"  said  Delia,  with  a  terrible  com- 
posure, "that  the  Macdonalds  took  the  oath  and  that  you  and 
your  allies  suppress  the  knowledge  that  you  may  not  be  cheat- 
ed of  your  bloody  scheme. " 

The  Master  of  Stair  flushed  darkly  and  put  his  hands  to  his 
black  velvet  cravat  as  if  he  would  have  torn  it  in  rage. 

"Who  told  you  that  ?"  he  exclaimed  fiercely. 

"Does  it  matter  ?"  she  answered.  "I  know,  and  all  England 
shall  know.  And  you  will  not  dare  to  touch  them  —  not  even 
you." 


224  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Who  told  you,"  he  repeated  thickly.  "What  spies  have  I 
about  my  affairs  ?  Who  told  you  ?" 

Delia  laid  her  hand  on  the  door. 

"You  can  arrest  us  all,"  she  said  quietly.  "You  can  go  to 
the  furthest  limits  of  your  law,  use  your  foully-won  triumph, 
but  you  cannot  prevent  this  truth  from  circling  London. " 

"Is  this  charity  toward  those  savages  or — revenge?"  he 
demanded  hotly.  "Pity  for  them  or  hate  of  me  ?" 

"Call  it  what  you  will,"  she  answered  quietly.  "Nothing 
can  stop  me.  Nay,  you  can  arrest  me  now,  but  you  cannot 
close  my  mouth,  nor  can  you  put  me  in  any  prison  so  close  that 
this  truth  shall  not  escape  —  to  the  very  footstool  of  your 
Prince,  who  for  shame  must  hear  me  — " 

"Now,  if  I  knew  who  told  you  — "  said  the  Master  of  Stair, 
"who  played  this  trick  on  me. "  He  clenched  his  hand  tightly 
against  the  marble  grapes. 

Delia  opened  the  door;  it  seemed  as  if  she  was  to  go  without 
another  word. 

"Stop,"  cried  the  Master  of  Stair. 

She  paused,  holding  the  door  ajar,  and  looked  back. 

"Who  is  the  dearer  to  you,"  asked  Sir  John,  "your  Jacobite 
friends  or  these  Macdonalds  ?" 

She  stared  in  a  slow  horror. 

"I  give  you  your  choice,"  pursued  the  Master  of  Stair.  "The 
Macdonalds  did  not  take  the  oath  before  the  appointed  time 
—  yet  they  took  it.  If  you  and  your  friends  will  keep  this 
knowledge  secret  —  if  you  will  neither  warn  the  Highlanders 
nor  rouse  the  Jacobites  —  then  I  will  burn  those  papers  I 
hold." 

The  door  slipped  from  Delia's  fingers;  she  moved  back  and 
lifted  a  colorless  face.  "What  is  the  punishment  you  have  for 


THE  PACT  225 

the  Macdonalds  ?"  she  asked  faintly,  "what  are  you  going  to 
do  with  them  ?" 

"Extirpate  them,"  he  answered,  "the  whole  race  of  them. 
Now  choose  —  your  friends  or  them. " 

Delia  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead  in  a  listless  weary  man- 
ner as  if  the  life  had  died  within  her. 

"So  — you  bargain,  Sir  John,"  she  said.  "And  I  — I  have  no 
choice  between  a  duty  and  a  sentiment  — give  me  my  friends. " 

"It  is  a  high  price,"  he  answered  with  a  sudden  smile. 
"Those  papers  against  your  silence." 

"Burn  them  —  burn  them,"  cried  Delia.  "Let  me  see  them 
burnt." 

He  laughed. 

"Why,  I  shall  keep  them,"  he  answered,  "and  if  you  speak 
I  shall  send  them  to  His  Majesty  —  but  while  you  are  silent 
you  are  safe  —  you  have  my  word  for  that. " 

"Your  word !"  she  echoed,  "your  word !" 

"It  is  as  good  as  that  of  other  men, "  he  said,  "at  least  you  must 
take  it — or  if  not  — well  — speak  and  the  papers  go  to  the  King. " 

He  turned  on  his  heel  abruptly  as  if  suddenly  weary  of  the 
situation  and  crossed  the  room  to  an  inner  door  which  he 
swept  through  without  a  backward  look,  and  closed  heavily 
behind  him. 

Delia  came  slowly  from  her  place  to  where  he  had  stood; 
slowly  she  drew  her  right  glove  off  and  with  her  bare  hand 
timidly  touched  the  marble  chimneypiece;  then  her  fingers 
fell  to  the  spot  where  his  had  rested  and  she  caressed  the 
wreathed  faun  lightly.  Her  face  was  flushed  and  enthralled; 
fierce  suppressed  sobs  rose  in  her  throat;  she  stooped  at  last 
and  set  her  lips  to  the  cold  marble,  rested  her  cheek  against  it 
an  instant,  then  drew  herself  erect,  scarlet  with  shame. 


226  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

She  picked  up  her  glove,  her  muff,  and  went  from  the  room, 
slowly  down  the  gloomy  magnificent  stairs  and  out  into  the 
cold  waning  afternoon.  The  Master  of  Stair,  waiting  her 
coming,  watched  her  from  an  upper  window. 

It  was  beginning  to  snow  and  he  noticed  how  she  struggled 
in  the  teeth  of  the  driving  wind  as  she  passed  round  the  square; 
she  was  the  only  soul  abroad  on  foot. 

As  he  looked  at  her,  one  of  his  violent  impulses  seized  him  to 
tear  to  pieces  those  papers  she  asked  for  and  scatter  them  after 
her;  had  he  had  them  there  upon  him  he  would  have  turned 
and  cast  them  into  the  fire;  scheming  and  intrigue  were  hateful 
to  him ;  he  wanted  the  straightforward  action ;  to  crush  the  Jacob- 
ites high-handedly,  not  hold  a  terror  over  a  woman's  head. 

And  the  generous  action  would  not  in  this  instance  be  very 
costly;  as  she  had  said  he  had  his  spies  on  all  the  ringleaders. 
Berwick  was  powerless  without  his  French  army  and  Louis 
would  never  send  an  army  till  he  obtained  those  letters  that 
would  never  reach  him;  the  men  who  had  signed  those  docu- 
ments would  be  too  frightened  by  their  loss  to  sign  others, 
certainly  he  could  afford  to  forego  a  mere  vengeance.  He  pro- 
ceeded to  act  at  once  on  his  impulse;  he  went  to  the  Viscount 
who  had  the  papers,  and  demanded  them. 

His  father  looked  up  and  laughed. 

"You  want  to  destroy  them,  "he  said  dryly.  "I  have  been  ex- 
pecting it  — why  were  you  keeping  them  so  long  ?  You  are  not 
as  adamant  as  you  suppose,  John  — some  one  has  moved  you. " 

"Give  me  the  papers,  my  lord,"  answered  Sir  John  sullenly. 

The  Viscount  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It  is  impossible." 

"Why,  my  lord?" 

His  father  twisted  his  wry  neck  and  gave  a  little  smile. 

"I  sent  them  to  His  Majesty  this  morning. " 


4  4  ^BP     *1^OU  have  sent  it  to  the  King  — the  packet  ?" 
^k    /      ejaculated  the  Master  of  Stair. 
^f  "I  have.  It  was  time,"  answered  the  Vis- 

JL.         count. 

"My  lord  — why  was  I  not  consulted  ?"  flashed  his  son. 

Viscount  Stair  looked  up  sideways  with  a  sudden  complete 
drop  of  his  indifferent  manner. 

"You  fool,"  he  said,  "you  are  not  in  a  position  you  can  play 
with  —  you  have  three  countries  full  of  enemies  and  not  one 
friend  that  I  know  of  —  except  the  King,  and  what  could  he 
do  for  you  if  all  Scotland  started  to  pull  you  down  ?  Ye  have 
discovered  this  plot  (more  by  good  fortune  than  by  your  own 
wits),  and  you  would  fling  away  the  credit  of  it  for  — what  ? 
Some  rag  of  sentiment. " 

"I  have  not  said  so,"  retorted  Sir  John  sullenly. 

"Bah !"  The  Viscount  made  a  grimace.  "Why  did  you  delay 
so  long  in  sending  them  to  Kensington  ?  Believe  me,  you 
cannot  afford  to  lose  these  chances  of  serving  the  country:  if 
your  enemies  find  one  handle  against  you  —  you  fall  far  more 
quickly  than  you  climbed,  my  dear  son." 

"My  lord,  my  lord !"  cried  the  Master  of  Stair,  "the  tenure 
of  my  office  is  not  so  slight. " 

"You  think  not  ?"  smiled  his  father.  "I  do  not  now  know 
you  could  have  justified  yourself  if  you  had  kept  those  papers 

227 


228  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

back  and  it  had  been  discovered.  It  would  have  looked  like 
complicity  with  the  Jacobites." 

Sir  John  lifted  his  head  impatiently. 

"Am  I  not  the  only  man  about  the  Court  whose  hands  are 
clean  from  that  charge?"  he  cried.  "Complicity  with  the 
Jacobites !  I  know  no  man  could  dare  accuse  me. " 

"And  I  know  a  hundred,"  returned  his  father.  "Arrogance 
is  strangely  blind  —  it  stands  on  a  hill  and  heeds  not  how  the 
foundations  are  being  sapped  till  it  falls  on  its  face  in  the  mire. 
And  nothing  is  more  pitiable  than  fallen  arrogance. " 

"Sir  — you  speak  as  if  I  was  a  boy  to  be  taught  by  your 
parables,"  cried  Sir  John  wrathfully.  "I  say  that  by  this  act  of 
yours  you  have  made  me  dishonor  my  word  -  '  Then  his 
angry  thoughts  flashed  to  what  Delia  knew  and  he  turned  to 
his  father.  "It  may  ruin  my  plans  with  the  Macdonalds. " 

"Better  lose  the  Macdonalds  than  the  Jacobites,"  answered 
the  Viscount  calmly.  "And  who  knows  of  your  Highland 
schemes  ?" 

Maddened  and  fuming,  Sir  John's  fury  fixed  itself  on  the 
unknown  person  who  had  betrayed  him;  had  Delia  known 
nothing  of  his  scheme  he  would  not  have  had  to  degrade  him- 
self by  a  bargain  he  was  powerless  to  carry  out. 

"Yea,  who  knows?"  he  demanded.  "I  only  knew  myself 
this  morning  that  the  Macdonalds  had  taken  the  oath,  and 
already  I  am  betrayed  —  now,  in  the  name  of  God,  who  is 
it?" 

The  Viscount  was  cool  and  sneering  again. 

"You  are  absolutely  incoherent,"  he  remarked.  "But  if 
any  one  has  betrayed  your  schemes  it  is,  of  course,  your  dutiful 
wife." 

The  Master  looked  round  sharply. 


ON  THE  VERGE  OF  MADNESS  229 

"I  do  not  think,"  he  said  bitterly,  "that  she  has  either  the 
wit  or  the  spirit;  and  she  does  not  know." 

"It  is  you  who  do  not  know,"  smiled  the  Viscount.  "She 
spies  on  you,  listens  at  doors. " 

Sir  John  flared  into  violence. 

"She  would  not  dare  —  I  cannot  believe,  and  if  I  did  — " 

"Ask  her,"  interrupted  his  father.  "She  has  a  silly  habit  of 
speaking  the  truth  —  the  result  I  believe  of  her  bad  education. 
She  is  a  marvelously  ignorant  woman." 

"I  can  note  her  ill  qualities  plainly  enough,  my  lord, "  cried 
Sir  John,  goaded  now  into  open  fury.  "Where  is  she  ?" 

The  Viscount  picked  up  a  pen  and  began  cutting  it;  he 
eyed  the  inflamed  countenance  of  his  son  with  a  cold  amuse- 
ment. 

"I  observed  her  in  here  a  little  while  ago,"  he  answered 
quietly.  "She  was  engaged  in  sealing  a  letter  —  to  Mr.  Whar- 
ton." 

"Tom  Wharton !"  cried  Sir  John. 

"Maybe  she  did  not  mention  to  you  she  had  received  a 
message  from  him  —  why  should  she  ?  She  knows  you  have 
not  the  friendship  for  Tom  Wharton  that  she  has  — 

"My  lord,"  said  the  Master  of  Stair,  "forebear."  He  was 
trembling  in  an  agony  of  rage.  He  turned  away. 

"Where  are  you  going  ?"  inquired  his  father. 

"To  find  her, "  said  Sir  John. 

"You  will,  I  think  —  in  the  drawing-room, "  remarked  the 
Viscount  smiling. 

Without  another  word  Sir  John  left  the  room.  It  was 
almost  dark  and  the  house  held  the  dreariness  of  winter 
twilight;  as  the  Master  of  Stair  entered  the  drawing- 
room  he  was  greeted  with  the  faint  soft  light  of  candles, 


230  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

burning  high  up  in  their  silver  sconces  against  the  white 
walls. 

It  was  a  vast  room  furnished  in  pale  tints,  cold,  with 
a  look  of  desertion,  opal-colored  curtains  shut  out  the  eve- 
ning, and  the  slender  furniture  cast  faint  reflections  on  the 
polished  floor. 

On  a  little  gold  and  cream-tinted  couch  by  the  fire  sat  Lady 
Dalrymple;  in  the  dim  light,  with  her  delicate  hued  dress  and 
her  pale  coloring,  she  looked  like  some  dainty  figure  of  wax, 
some  doll  set  there  to  complete  the  picture,  so  quiet  she  was 
in  her  desolate  splendor. 

On  a  small  table  beside  her  stood  a  bird-cage;  she  was 
bending  toward  it  and  in  the  hollow  of  her  hand  lay  a  little 
bullfinch;  her  full  blue  eyes  gazed  at  it  anxiously;  it  was  sick 
and  lay  quite  passively  in  her  hand,  its  feathers  forlornly 
rough. 

"Ah,  don't  you  die,  too,"  she  whispered  in  a  kind  of  horror. 
"Don't  you  die,  too." 

Then  she  heard  the  door  close  and  looking  round  across 
the  pale  room,  saw  her  husband. 

Instantly  she  put  the  bird  back  in  its  cage,  shut  the  door  on 
it,  and  rose. 

"Ulrica,"  said  the  Master  of  Stair,  "I  have  something  to 
ask  of  you. " 

He  came  across  the  room,  and  at  sight  of  his  face  the  color 
left  her  own;  she  slipped  back  onto  the  gold  sofa  and  clasped 
her  hands  tightly. 

"What  do  you  know  of  my  affairs  ?"  demanded  Sir  John. 
"I  tell  you  nothing,  but  do  you  spy  on  me  ?" 

He  clenched  his  hand  over  the  gilding  behind  her,  and  she 
shrank  together. 


ON  THE  VERGE  OF  MADNESS  231 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked.  "Why  do  you  speak  so 
to  me?" 

"Because  I  desire  an  answer,"  he  said  breathing  hard. 

"I  will  give  you  none,"  she  replied  in  a  trembling  indigna- 
tion. "This  is  my  lord's  work  —  he  has  set  you  on  me." 

"You  had  better  tell  me  before  I  discover  for  myself," 
said  her  husband,  his  voice  unsteady  with  suppressed  passion. 
"Did  you  see  that  girl  who  came  asking  for  me  this  after- 
noon ?" 

She  looked  away,  turning  white,  but  there  was  that  in 
her  could  disdain  the  lie  fear  prompted. 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"By  Heaven !"  cried  Sir  John  softly;  he  came  a  little  nearer. 
"Did  you  inform  her  of  anything  ?" 

Her  eyes  met  his  with  a  full  look  of  aversion. 

"What  is  the  object  of  this  ?"  she  asked.  "Why  do  you 
take  this  manner  to  me  ?" 

His  eye  caught  a  letter  lying  by  the  bird-cage,  and  the 
sight  of  it  reminded  him  of  the  Viscount's  second  accusation. 

"To  whom  do  you  write  ?"  he  demanded. 

She  caught  the  letter  up  and  rose. 

"To  Mr.  Wharton,"  she  answered. 

"Give  it  to  me,"  flashed  Sir  John  with  a  step  forward. 

Lady  Dalrymple  drew  back,  the  letter  held  to  her  bosom. 

"I  give  up  my  friends  at  your  desire,"  she  said.  "This  is  an 
insult." 

Their  eyes  exchanged  hatred,  furious  on  his  side,  fear 
mingled  with  hers. 

"Give  it  to  me,"  he  repeated  hoarsely. 

"No,"  she  answered,  "you  have  no  right." 

"No  right !"  He  half-laughed.  "Do  you  defy  me  ?" 


£32  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

Her  spirit  rose  at  his  tone. 

"You  go  too  far,  Sir  John,"  she  shuddered.  "Stand  further 
away  from  me,"  and  at  the  same  instant  she  flung  the  letter 
into  the  fire,  her  eyes  flashing  with  anger. 

"You  may  think  what  you  will  of  the  contents,"  she  said. 
"And  I  did  —  " 

"You  did  what,  madam  ?" 

Her  glance  winced  under  his,  but  she  answered  disdain- 
fully: 

"I  told  the  girl  that  these  people  —  whoever  they  are  — 
these  Macdonalds  —  had  taken  the  oath. " 

The  Master  of  Stair's  face  was  distorted  with  a  savagery 
unpleasant  to  look  upon;  he  stood  motionless  with  his  hand 
on  his  hip,  gazing  at  her. 

"I  would  do  it  again,"  she  said.  "Why  should  I  be  loyal 
to  your  blood-stained  schemes  ?  " 

Her  husband  threw  up  his  hand  as  if  to  shut  out  the  sight 
of  her. 

"Keep  away  from  me,"  he  cried.  "For  I  know  not  what  I 
may  do." 

"Ah,  you  can  do  no  more  to  me  than  you  have  done,"  she 
answered.  "You  have  —  " 

He  suddenly  caught  her  by  the  arm,  checking  what  she 
would  have  said. 

"If  you  spy  on  me,"  he  said  breathing  fast,  "if  you  blow 
my  affairs  abroad  —  oh,  by  God,  madam,  you  will  try  me 
beyond  endurance." 

She  went  white  and  shivered,  straining  away. 

"Let  go  of  me,"  she  whispered  in  a  terrified  voice. 

But  his  grip  tightened,  and  as  she  looked  up  into  his  mad 
eyes,  a  horror  seized  her. 


ON  THE  VERGE  OF  MADNESS  233 

"You  want  another  murder  on  your  name!"  she  cried. 

He  loosened  his  hold  and  staggered  back  against  the  wall. 

"Oh,  dear  Heaven  I"  he  said  under  his  breath.  "Dear 
Heaven  —  " 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  staring  at  her  in  a  wild 
manner. 

"Ye  are  mad!"  whispered  Lady  Dalrymple  in  awestruck 
tones. 

"Maybe,"  he  answered  hoarsely.  "Maybe — keep  away 
from  me  —  take  care. " 

He  strode  away  across  the  room  and  she  heard  the  door 
bang  heavily  behind  him.  She  stood  still  a  moment,  then, 
trembling,  crossed  to  the  desk.  She  thought  of  the  contents 
of  Tom  Wharton's  letter,  and  smiled  in  mockery  at  herself. 
There  was  one  could  do  what  she  could  not  for  herself; 
she  would  write  another  letter  in  another  spirit. 

Scandal !  What  did  she  care  for  scandal  now ! 

In  a  rare  mood  of  recklessness  she  seated  herself  at  the 
white  and  silver  bureau  and  drew  out  a  sheet  of  paper.  But 
ere  her  hand  could  trace  any  of  her  confused  thoughts  the 
sound  of  the  opening  door  alarmed  her. 

In  the  doorway  stood  the  Countess  Peggy,  surveying  her 
with  sharp  green  eyes  under  the  shade  of  her  feathered  hat. 

" Weel, "  she  said  with  her  usual  self-possession,  "I  will  have 
been  saying  for  some  time  now  that  I  would  come  and  see  ye, 
and  to-day  I  came.  But  your  servant  will  not  be  knowing 
where  ye  are,  and  so  they  put  me  in  a  vast  room  ower  dark,  and 
I  grew  weary  of  waiting,  so  started  to  find  ye. " 

Lady  Dalrymple  could  do  nothing  but  look  at  her  in  a 
dazed  manner  and  falter  something  below  her  breath.  The 
Countess  crossed  over  to  her,  looking  vivid,  brilliant  and 


234  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

splendid  in  the  pale  room;  the  winter  air  had  touched  her 
cheeks  with  an  apple-blossom  red;" her  lithe  figure  carried 
regally  her  green  velvet  gown  and  her  trailing  furs. 

She  sank  onto  the  little  settee  and -looked  across  at  the 
white  silent  woman  at  the  bureau. 

"Why,  ye  are  ill!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Lady  Dalrymple  faintly.  "You  must, 
madam,  excuse  me  —  you  startled  me. " 

But  the  sharp  eyes  of  the  Countess  Peggy  were  not  to  be 
deceived.  "What  has  happened  ?"  she  demanded. 

Lady  Dalrymple  writhed  under  this  intrusion.  She  fixed 
her  eyes  on  the  blank  sheet  of  paper  as  if  to  encourage  her- 
self in  an  ebbing  resolution. 

"Madam  — I  assure  you,"  she  began. 

Lady  Breadalbane  rose  and  came  up  behind  her. 

"Ulrica  Dalrymple,  ye  no'  tell  the  truth  when  ye  say  ye 
ar'na'ill  —  " 

The  other  rose  desperately. 

"It  is  naught,"  she  said,  and  drew  her  fichu  closer  round 
her  shoulders.  "I— I  —  " 

"I  will  be  calling  your  woman  or  Sir  John. " 

"Oh,  no,"  was  the  vehement  answer,  "I  beseech  you,  mad- 
am, that  you  will  not." 

So  wild  and  white  she  looked,  so  desperately  she  trembled 
and  clasped  her  shaking  hands  on  her  bosom,  that  the  other 
woman  stood  arrested,  staring  at  her.  The  Countess  shared 
the  common  knowledge  of  Sir  John's  domestic  affairs,  and 
as  she  looked  at  his  wife  her  thoughts  leaped  to  a  swift 
conclusion. 

"Ulrica — has  he  been  laying  hands  on  ye?"  she  asked. 
"Sir  John,  I  mean." 


ON  THE  VERGE  OF  MADNESS  235 

"No,  no,"  answered  Lady  Dalrymple  desperately.  "My 
God,  no,  how  dare  you  ask  me  ?" 

Lady  Breadalbane  looked  at  her  unmoved. 

"Finish  your  letter,"  she  said  calmly.  "I  would  no'  be  dis- 
turbing ye." 

But  the  anger  of  Sir  John's  wife  had  flamed  up  only  to  die 
out  and  leave  the  ashes  of  utter  misery  behind. 

"I  will  not  write  it,"  she  replied.  "God  forgive  that  I  ever 
thought  I  would. " 

She  sank  down  on  the  other  end  of  the  settee,  too  over- 
wrought to  conceal  her  distress,  and  Lady  Breadalbane's 
clear  eyes  measured  her  curiously. 

There  was  a  silence  of  seconds,  then  the  Countess  spoke. 

"Ye  are  very  unhappy,  Ulrica  Dalrymple  —  ye  seem  to 
have  made  a  fine  confusion  of  your  life  —  and  I  would  tell 
ye  that  ye  will  no'  be  bettering  it  by  puling  and  whimpering. " 

Lady  Dalrymple  turned  wild  eyes  to  her. 

"What  do  you  know  of  any  of  it  ?"  she  asked. 

"Weel,  I  ken  somewhat,"  was  the  composed  answer. 
"And  I'm  sorry  for  ye  —  but  I  dinna  think  that  ye  will 
improve  your  lord's  temper  with  a  gloomy  face  and  a  moping 
manner" 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Lady  Dalrymple  faintly. 

The  Countess  turned  to  her  sharply. 

"Woman,  woman,"  she  cried.  "Dinna  ye  ken  that  a  man 
likes  a  cheerfu'  face  aboot  him,  and  a  house  that  is  warm 
and  well-lighted,  not  a  great  auld  barn  like  this,  which  would 
disconcert  ony  but  ghosts  ?" 

A  faint  flush  crept  into  Lady  Dalrymple's  face. 

"And  am  I  to  give  all  the  service  ?  I  am  to  supply  all  the 
gaiety,  the  life,  the  care  against  his  mere  tolerance  ?" 


236  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Yes,"  was  the  calm  answer.  "It  comes  to  about  that 
if  ye  want  a  life  that  is  worth  living  —  ye  must  give  some- 
what your  side;  remember  he  has  more  on  his  mind  than  ye 
will  ever  ken. " 

As  she  spoke  the  Countess  lifted  her  eyes  to  a  portrait 
over  the  bureau,  it  was  of  Sir  John  and  taken  in  his  May  of 
life;  he  wore  a  cuirass  and  plumed  hat  and  smiled  out  of  the 
canvas,  as  handsome  a  face  as  a  man  may  have. 

His  wife  followed  the  Countess's  glance. 

"He  is  not  like  that  now,"  she  said  bitterly.  She  rose. 
"Did  you  ever  hate  any  one,  madam?"  she  asked.  Then, 
without  waiting,  she  answered  herself.  "It  is  terrible  to  hate," 
she  said  hoarsely.  "And  terrible  to  be  hated. " 

She  turned  wildly  about  and  caught  up  the  cage  of  bull- 
finches. She  held  them  close  to  her  bosom. 

"They  eat  from  my  hand,"  she  said  wistfully.  "I  think 
they  like  me." 

Then  she  burst  into  hysterical  laughter  and  hurried  from 
the  room,  swiftly,  through  the  folding-doors. 

The  Countess  Peggy  looked  again  at  the  portrait  over  the 
bureau,  and  slowly  rose  and  crossed  over  to  it.  She  studied  it 
for  some  time  in  silence,  holding  the  candle  that  stood  under- 
neath up  above  her  head  that  she  might  see  the  better.  She 
heard  the  door  open  and  turned  to  see  the  original  of  the 
portrait  within  a  few  feet  of  her. 

He  paused,  arrested  by  seeing  her. 

"I  did  not  know  that  you  were  here,"  he  said  quickly. 

The  Countess  Peggy  set  the  candle  down,  a  little  dis- 
composed by  his  sudden  appearance. 

"I  came  to  see  your  lady,  Sir  John." 

It  seemed  that  his  pallor  deepened. 


ON  THE  VERGE  OF  MADNESS  237 

"She  was  here  — you  saw  her  ?" 

"Yes,  Sir  John." 

His  blue  eyes  swept  over  her;  she  winced  under  it,  a  rare 
thing  for  her;  she  could  not  look  at  his  proud,  gloomy  face; 
her  own  flushed  a  little;  she  shifted  onto  common  ground. 

"Ye  hae  heard,  Sir  John,  that  the  Jacobite,  Jerome  Caryl, 
is  to  be  examined  privately  at  Kensington  to-morrow  ?" 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  black  velvet  cravat  as  if  to  loosen  it. 

"Yes,  I  have  heard." 

She  rose,  still  not  looking  at  him,  and  crossed  to  the  door. 

"Good -even,  Sir  John." 

Under  the  influence  of  his  splendid  presen«e  her  voice  was 
almost  timid. 

"Good -even,  madam." 

He  opened  the  door  for  her  in  an  indifferent  manner,  and 
when  she  had  gone  he  crossed  to  the  bureau  and  snatched  up 
the  candle  she  had  held,  and  gazed  at  his  portrait  as  she  had 
gazed,  with  a  strange  curiosity. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
WILLIAM  OF  ORANGE 

JEROME  CARYL  was  informed  that  he  was  to  be 
examined.  It  was  the  day  after  his  arrest,  he  had  been 
followed  to  his  lodging,  taken  quietly  and  conveyed 
to  the  guard-house  at  Kensington.  No  chance  was 
his  to  pass  on  warning  to  any  save  Berwick,  and  it  was 
doubtful  whether  he  now  would  be  able  to  leave  the  country. 
The  government  was  on  the  alert. 

Jerome  Caryl  had  no  thought  for  company  save  of  fail- 
ure; he  had  played  for  a  high  stake  and  the  price  for  losing 
it  was  heavy.  Personally  he  looked  ahead  with  calm  eyes;  the 
prospect  for  him  was  utterly  hopeless :  Tyburn  as  soon  as  they 
could  hurry  his  trial  through;  his  guilt  was  obvious,  beyond 
dispute.  And  when  those  papers  were  opened  at  Kensington 
the  thousands  who  had  been  prompted  by  his  persuasions  and 
their  own  rashness  to  sign  them  would  be  sent  in  his  footsteps 
to  glut  the  government  revenge. 

At  this  reflection  Jerome  Caryl  did  flinch,  at  the  bloodshed 
there  would  be;  the  sneer  of  the  French  at  his  clumsiness, 
and  King  James's  bewail  that  he  was  so  badly  served.  He 
knew  that  his  wholesale  failure  could  not  be  judged  lightly 
at  St.  Germains,  even  though  he  hanged  for  it. 

He  had  been  fooled;  that  unforgivable  thing  that  carried 
the  scorn  of  his  enemies  and  the  curses  of  his  friends :  he  had 
fallen  headlong  to  his  own  destruction  and  dragged  after 

238 


WILLIAM  OF  ORANGE  239 

him  those  who  had  trusted  him;  a  bitter  reflection  for  his 
solitude. 

Of  his  dead  friend's  sister,  Caryl  could  not  trust  himself  to 
think.  He  could  not  know  if  she  had  heard  of  his  arrest,  but  he 
did  know  that  whether  warned  in  time  or  not,  she  would 
stay  and  share  the  common  fate. 

Some  might  try  and  fly  to  France,  but  not  Delia  Feather- 
stonehaugh. 

But  these  thoughts  he  thrust  from  him  as  he  was  conducted 
from  his  solitude  along  the  quiet  rooms  of  the  palace.  His 
face  grew  disdainful  as  he  reflected  the  examination  he  must 
be  put  to  was  a  mere  flourish.  They  knew  everything.  Did 
they  want  him  to  betray  secrets  in  their  possession  already  ? 
The  government  held  in  its  hand  the  plot  and  all  concerned 
in  it.  Jerome  Caryl  felt  contemptuous  of  this  slow  dealing. 
Why  did  they  not  strike  and  have  done  ?  The  power  was  theirs. 

Added  to  this,  the  soldier  conducting  him,  a  Dutchman, 
who  seemed  to  have  no  English,  roused  Jerome's  ire  curious- 
ly; the  prisoner  noticed  how  the  fellow's  uniform  sat  in 
creases  on  his  fat  figure,  how  he  wheezed  and  moaned  to 
himself  as  he  mounted  the  stairs,  and  how  he  eyed  his  charge 
from  time  to  time  with  a  glance  of  heavy  aversion.  At  every 
doorway  a  sentinel  was  posted,  and  with  him  the  fat  Dutch- 
man exchanged  slow  speech  in  his  own  language,  while 
Jerome  waited  his  pleasure,  swordless,  helpless,  in  a  cold 
wrath  at  these  lumpish  foreign  intruders. 

"Have  you,  sir,  no  English  here?"  he  demanded  at  last. 
"Or  is  Kensington  entirely  filled  with  your  countrymen  ?" 

The  Dutchman  looked  at  him  insolently  and  made  no 
answer;  it  was  doubtful  if  he  understood. 

They  had  reached  now  a  small  ante-chamber  at  the  end 


240  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

of  a  long  gallery;  it  was  very  ill-lit;  the  soldier's  blue  uniform 
showed  dimly  through  the  gloom;  a  high-nosed,  pale-faced 
young  man  was  engaged  in  tying  up  papers  at  a  side  table. 
He  came  forward  and  spoke  in  a  suppressed  manner  to  the 
soldier,  who,  Jerome  gathered  from  the  address,  was  Count 
Solmes  of  the  famous  "Blues." 

The  Englishman  looked  on  in  disinterested  curiosity;  the 
whole  surroundings  were  as  unpretentious  as  might  be  the 
back  parlor  of  a  small  merchant's  shop:  the  officials  all 
seemed  affected  with  the  same  taciturn  manner  and  somber 
clothing.  Dutch  appeared  the  only  language  spoken. 

His  gossip  over,  Count  Solmes  disappeared  through  an 
inner  door,  and  the  pale  usher  turned  gloomy  eyes  on  Jerome, 
who,  thinking  of  the  court  of  the  Second  Charles,  inwardly 
smiled  and  sighed  alike. 

The  Count,  returning,  was  accompanied  by  another  Dutch 
gentleman  who,  remaining  on  the  threshold,  beckoned  Jerome 
into  the  inner  room. 

This  was  more  cheerful  of  aspect,  being  lit  by  two  long 
windows  that  looked  on  the  garden,  and  so  small  that  the 
firelight  filled  it  from  end  to  end. 

The  two  Dutchmen  talked  together  with  no  heed  of  the 
fourth  occupant  of  the  room,  a  lean  man  in  the  prim  gown 
and  wig  of  a  Scottish  clergyman,  who  sat  by  the  window, 
evidently  waiting. 

Jerome  Caryl  knew  him  at  once  for  Carstairs,  chaplain 
to  their  Majesties  for  Scotland,  and  confidential  adviser  to 
the  King.  "A  drab-hued  court,"  he  smiled  to  himself,  and 
while  Count  Solmes  talked  to  his  friend  and  the  Rev.  William 
Carstairs  gazed  out  of  the  window  at  the  bare  trees,  the  Ja- 
cobite prisoner  idly  noted  what  manner  of  room  he  was  in. 


WILLIAM  OF  ORANGE  241 

Floor,  walls  and  ceiling  were  paneled  in  highly  polished 
wood;  a  bureau  stood  between  the  two  windows,  and  before 
it  a  chair;  a  second  chair  and  a  stool  similar  to  that  on  which 
Carstairs  sat,  completed  the  furniture,  all  of  the  same  stiff 
pattern  and  absolutely  plain. 

On  the  wooden  chimneypiece  stood  two  heavy  brass 
candlesticks,  polished  till  they  shone  like  gold ;  above  hung  a 
dark  portrait  in  a  gilt  frame  of  a  fashionably  dressed  lady,  who 
smiled  aimlessly;  she  was  flanked  by  two  smaller  pictures 
of  vases  of  fruit,  stiff  but  rich  in  coloring. 

Close  behind  Jerome,  on  a  shelf  that  appeared  to  have  been 
affixed  on  purpose,  stood  a  curious  tall  vase  of  blue  and  white 
Delft;  from  each  of  the  ten  spouts  breaking  the  side,  showed 
the  tips  of  a  tulip  bulb  with  the  first  points  of  green;  in  the 
opening  of  the  vase  itself  lay  another  larger  and  ready  to 
burst  into  flower. 

The  Dutchmen  broke  off  their  converse  at  last  and  left 
the  room.  Jerome  turned  to  the  silent  figure  by  the  window. 

"Sir,"  he  said  evenly,  "can  you  tell  me  what  is  intended 
toward  me :  on  what  I  wait  ? " 

Carstairs  showed  a  solemn  face. 

"Young  man,"  he  replied,  "albeit  I  am  not  here  to  answer 
thy  questioning,  yet  out  of  charity  will  I  inform  thee,  that 
thou  art  shortly  to  be  examined  for  thy  manifold  offenses." 

Jerome  smiled.  It  was  familiar  phraseology. 

"By  whom,  sir?" 

"By  those  whom  thou  hast  offended,"  was  the  answer. 
As  he  spoke  Carstairs  rose  and  his  spare  figure  looked  un- 
naturally tall. 

"God  turn  thee,  young  man,  from  the  heathenish  worship 
of  idols  that  has  led  thee  into  these  errors,"  he  said  gravely. 


242  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Thou  art  one  of  the  Magliants  who  distract  this  land 
yet,  although  the  Lord  has  seen  fit  to  remove  them  from  their 
high  places  and  set  up  his  lowly  servants. " 

He  put  out  his  hand  in  a  gesture  of  proud  humility,  and 
Jerome  saw  that  his  thumb  was  a  mere  shriveled  stump  of 
bone. 

"Maybe  there  is  but  a  little  time  left  to  thee,  therefore 
repent  swiftly  lest  thou  lose  the  world  everlasting  as  thou 
hast  the  world  of  the  flesh." 

With  this  he  turned  slowly  and  left  the  room. 

Jerome  leaned  against  the  wall  and  waited,  his  feeling  a 
curious  one  of  disinterest  and  indifference;  a  man  hopelessly 
in  the  hands  of  his  enemies,  a  man  who  has  failed  and  is  at  the 
mercy  of  those  whom  he  hates  and  has  striven  to  overthrow, 
has  no  chance  save  to  stand  silent,  contemptuous  of  himself. 

After  a  few  moments  a  gentleman  entered,  and  Jerome 
looked  up. 

The  new-comer  wore  his  hat  and  passed  at  once  to  the 
chair  by  the  bureau,  where  he  sat  down,  and  with  no  heed 
of  Jerome  began  opening  some  letters  that  lay  there. 

He  wore  a  black  velvet  riding-suit,  heavily  gallooned  with 
gold;  a  diamond  fastened  the  long  feather  in  his  gray  beaver. 
There  was  a  quantity  of  fine  lace  on  his  cravat  and  at  his 
wrists,  the  gold  handle  of  his  sword  was  of  most  beautiful 
workmanship.  He  glanced  over  the  letters,  then  pulling  off 
his  gloves  looked  up  at  Jerome.  His  eyes,  of  that  hazel  that 
is  almost  green,  were  large  and  very  brilliant,  his  features 
aristocratic,  clear-cut,  composed,  and  shaded  by  heavy 
auburn  curls. 

Jerome  Caryl  knew  him  at  once,  and  flushed  deeply  in  the 
suddenness  and  unexpectedness  of  the  encounter. 


WILLIAM  OF  ORANGE  243 

"Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Caryl,"  said  William  of  Orange  with 
a  little  nod.  "Will  you  sit  down  ?  The  stool  is  'ard,  but  you 
save  there  a  chair  more  comfortable. " 

Jerome  Caryl  bowed. 

"I  do  not  look  for  ease  in  Kensington,  your  Highness," 
he  answered,  and  remained  standing. 

The  King  took  a  packet  from  the  bureau  drawer,  and 
placed  it  beside  his  hand.  At  sight  of  it  the  color  came  anew 
into  Jerome  Caryl's  face.  He  recognized  the  familiar  leathern 
case. 

"Milor'  Stair,"  said  William,  "send  this  me  —  it  is  yours  — 
you  know  it  — n'est  pas?" 

"It  is  mine,"  replied  Jerome  coldly.  "It  was  stolen  from 
me  by  one  of  your  Highness'  ministers. " 

The  King  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"Yes,  it  is  so,"  he  said.  "You  'ave  been  outwit'.  Mon  Dieu! 
sometime  it  is  to  be  expect' !  Sir  John  'ave  not  a  'ead  for  plot  — 
but  you  —  you  'ave  behave'  —  like  the  fools. " 

With  the  same  perfect  composure  and  unmoved  face,  he 
opened  the  case  and  took  out  the  papers.  Jerome  noticed  that 
the  seals  were  not  yet  broken. 

"We  are  prepared  to  pay  for  being  fools,  your  Highness," 
he  said  coldly. 

"It  is  to  be  hope',"  remarked  William  dryly.  "You  can  all 
do  that  —  you  foreigners  —  when  you  'ave  play'  the  fool 
you  can  pay  for  it." 

His  eyes  flashed  for  a  moment  to  Jerome  Caryl's  steady 
presence,  then  fell  to  the  letter  he  held. 

"This,"  he  said,  "is  a  letter  for  my  uncie  at  St.  Germains. 
I  believe  'e  get  many  such  —  pourquoi  non  ? " 

He  took  up  the  next  paper,  then  put  it  down  and  laid 


244  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

his  small,  high-bred  hand  over  it;  the  upper  part  of  his  face 
was  hidden  in  the  shadow  of  his  hat,  but  Jerome  fancied  he 
detected  a  faint  smile  on  the  thin  lips,  and  it  fired  his  blood. 

"Sir,"  he  demanded,  "may  I  ask  what  you  want  of  me? 
Where  this  leads  ?  I  deny  nothing. " 

"It  would  be  mos'  foolish,"  interrupted  William.  "It  is 
prove*.  " 

"Will  your  Highness  then  make  an  end  ?" 

"That  is  not  the  way  in  this  mos'  advance'  country," 
answered  William,  and  now  there  was  no  mistaking  the  smile. 
"My  cousin  in  France  'as  the  lettres  de  cachet — but  'ere 
we  'ave  the  trial,  the  witness,  the  lawyer  —  all  mos'  fair. " 

He  leaned  back  on  his  chair  and  his  smile  deepened. 

"It  is  amusin'  'ow  you  plot  for  the  King  you  yoursel' 
throw  out.  This  is  a  list  for  my  cousin  (or  Monsieur  de 
Louvois)  signe'  by  all  you  could  persuade — n'est  pas?" 

He  sat  up  with  a  rattle  of  his  sword-hilt  against  the  chair. 

"Who  of  my  courtiers  'ave  their  names  there  ?"  he  said, 
tapping  the  sealed  paper.  "It  is  mos'  amusin',  but,  mon- 
sieur, it  is  not  new  to  me.  Per'aps  you  think  I  am  thick 
head,  and  do  not  know  who  betray  me  —  Mon  Dieu !  I 
think  I  tell  you  almos'  all  the  names  there. " 

"Your  Highness  employs  many  of  the  men  whose  names  you  • 
will  find  there,"  said  Jerome,  "and  there  are  many  more 
whom  your  Highness  has  never  heard  of,  country  gentlemen, 
honest  small  folk  all  over  England  whom  you  can  ruin  at 
once  —  you  can  be  revenged  on  your  servants  and  these 
others,  your  Highness,  by  merely  opening  that  paper. " 

"You,  monsieur,  speak  like  a  enemy  of  me,"  said  William 
calmly.  "You  think  it  is  my  pleasure  to  shed  blood  —  you  are 
of  those  who  write  that  when  I  was  outside  Bruxelles  I  burn, 


WILLIAM  OF  ORANGE  245 

alive  my  wounded  soldiers,  and  that  I  poisone'  my  Uncle 
Charles  —  I  'ave  read  these  things  in  your  leaflets. " 

Jerome  flushed. 

"I  have  had  no  hand  in  those,"  he  answered.  "I  find  my 
cause  too  good  an  one  to  need  lies  to  support  it.  I  deny  that 
you  are  King  of  England,  your  Highness,  —  I  am  not  blind 
to  your  qualities. " 

"Yet,  Mr.  Caryl,  you  speak  to  me  of  being  revenge'  — 
which  is  a  thing  for  men  like  Milor'  Mordaunt.  This  is 
not,  Mon  Dieu,  the  firs'  plot  I  'ave  discover'  since  I  was 
child.  I  'ave  learn'  to  take  insult  and  betrayal." 

He  rose  and  came  into  the  room,  the  paper  in  his  hand. 

"The  nobles,  I  know,"  he  said.  "An'  they  serve  me 
so  they  stay  —  if  I  send  to  the  Tower  all  who  write  to  St. 
Germains  —  who  'ave  I  left  ?  And  I  will  spare  them  my 
forgiveness. " 

"And  we  pay  for  your  clemency,  sir,"  replied  Jerome 
Caryl  bitterly.  "We  humbler  plotters. " 

William  turned  and  looked  at  him.  They  were  standing 
very  near  each  other.  The  King  took  his  hat  off  and  flung  it 
down  on  the  chair  beside  him. 

"Mr.  Caryl,"  he  said,  "you  are  gentilhomme — cannot 
you  see  that  I  will  not  do  something  ?  I  will  not  'unt  down 
these  bourgeois  —  what  are  they  ?  I  will  not  know  their 
name'. " 

He  held  the  papers  out  to  the  Jacobite. 

"I  am  tire'  of  your  plot,"  he  finished.  "Put  that  in  the 
fire  and  let  me  'ear  no  more  of  it. " 

Jerome  Caryl  stared  at  him,  utterly  bewildered  and  con- 
fused ;  the  sense  of  what  this  meant  rushed  over  him,  making 
him  giddy. 


246  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Put  these  in  the  fire,"  repeated  the  King.  "I  'ave  no  more 
time." 

The  Jacobite  took  the  papers ;  with  a  great  rush  of  crimson 
to  his  face,  he  thought  of  Delia  and  the  hundreds  to  whom 
this  would  mean  salvation. 

"Your  Highness  is  magnanimous,"  he  said  unsteadily. 
"Your  generosity  disarms  me. " 

"You  'ave  mistake'  me,"  answered  William  coldly.  "Where- 
fore did  you  think  I  would  wish  to  be  revenge '  ?  Sir  John 
think  to  serve  me  with  this  an'  I  am  indebt'  to  Mm  that  he 
preserve  peace,  but  I  do  not  stoop,  Mr.  Caryl,  to  revenge." 

He  went  back  to  his  seat  at  the  bureau ;  there  was  a  pause, 
a  silence,  then  Jerome  Caryl  put  the  papers  into  the  fire;  the 
great  flare  they  made  lit  up  the  pale  face  of  William  of 
Orange  and  the  beautiful  flushed  countenance  of  the 
Jacobite. 

Across  the  narrow  bright  room  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  met, 
as  if  they  measured  each  other;  then  the  King  dropped 
his  glance  to  the  letters  before  him. 

"You  'ave  nothing  more  to  say?"  he  asked  coldly.  "Then 
you  may  depar'. " 

"I  shall  not  soon  forget  your  Highness'  generosity,"  said 
Jerome  Caryl  unsteadily,  and  the  sincerity  of  his  voice  made 
amends  for  the  conventional  wording. 

"Call  it  my  policy,"  answered  William  with  a  slight  lift 
of  his  green  eyes.  "And  so,  Mr.  Caryl,  you  will  be  spare'  an 
obligation. " 

Jerome  Caryl  waited  for  him  to  demand  some  oath  or 
promise,  to  attach  some  condition  to  this  cold  magnanimity; 
he  felt  more  utterly  at  this  man's  mercy  than  when  those 
papers  lay  under  his  hand. 


WILLIAM  OF  ORANGE  247 

Suddenly  the  King  looked  up. 

"For  what  do  you  wait  ?"  he  demanded.  "You  are  free  — 
go  back  —  to  your  plot  if  you  will,  only  I  give  you  this 
advice  —  take  care  'ow  you  sign  paper'  —  it  is  dangerous  — 
n'est  pas  ?  " 

Jerome  colored  painfully. 

"My  duty  to  my  King,"  he  said,  "must  make  me  appear 
ungrateful,  but  without  disloyalty  to  my  cause  I  can  as- 
sure your  Highness  that  I  will  follow  no  unworthy  means 
of  serving  your  enemies." 

"Such  as  Monsieur  Grandval  use'  ?"  answered  William, 
with  a  half -smile. 

"By  Heaven,  no,"  cried  Jerome  vehemently,  "I  have  never 
been  of  that  kind. " 

William  slightly  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"My  cousin  of  France  is  gentilhomme,"  he  said,  "but  'e 
and  my  uncle  send  Monsieur  Grandval  to  —  what  would 
you  say  ?  —  murder  me  —  voila  tout. " 

Jerome  Caryl  stood  silent;  mention  of  the  Grandval 
affair  was  painful  to  any  follower  of  the  Stuart  cause;  the 
King  touched  the  bell  on  his  desk,  and  the  high-nosed 
young  man  entered.  William  addressed  him  in  his  fluent 
French. 

"Show  out  this  gentleman,"  he  said,  "and  if  Sir  John  be 
here  send  him  in." 

He  inclined  his  head  gravely  toward  Caryl,  who  bowed 
slightly,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  for  a  strange  bewilderment 
that  possessed  him,  and  without  another  word  on  either 
side  they  parted. 

The  King  looked  after  him  with  a  contained  face,  then 
gave  a  glance  of  distaste  at  his  pile  of  unopened  letters 


248  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

and  pushed  his  chair  back  so  that  his  head  rested  against  the 
wall;  the  room  was  full  of  pleasant  warm  shadows  that 
flickered  up  and  down  the  shining  polished  walls ;  the  candle- 
sticks and  the  fireirons  winked  and  glittered  and  the  views 
from  the  two  windows  showed  like  two  pictures  in  cold 
grays  and  blues  in  great  contrast  to  the  warm  light  within. 

The  palace  clock  struck  half  past-five.  William  drew  out 
his  watch,  a  sapphire  in  the  back  glittered  as  he  moved  it; 
it  was  correct;  he  put  it  back  in  his  pocket. 

The  door  was  opened  noiselessly  by  the  usher  and  Sir 
John  Dalrymple  entered  with  the  ease  of  a  man  familiar  and 
welcomed.  William,  still  with  his  fingers  in  his  watch  chain, 
spoke  without  moving. 

"I  'ave  seen  your  Jacobite,  Sir  John. " 

"I  was  surprised,  sir,  to  meet  him  leaving  Kensington  a 
free  man. " 

The  Master  of  Stair  crossed  to  the  hearth  and  stood  there; 
his  face  was  set  and  his  manner  troubled. 

"Your  Majesty  has  received  the  evidence  of  this  plot 
from  my  father  ?"  he  said. 

"And  I  'ave  destroye'  it,  Sir  John,"  answered  William. 
"This  man  jus'  now,  'e  burnt  it. " 

"Burnt  it !"  echoed  the  Master.  "Did  your  Majesty  read  it  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  King.  "For  what  use  ?  For  what  end  should 
I  wish  to  know  these  people  ?  I  am  tire'  of  your  plot;  but 
they  are  mos'  'armless  —  let  them  go. " 

Sir  John  stood  silent.  So  the  King  had  done  what  Delia 
Featherstonehaugh  had  asked  him  to  do;  the  mercy  he  had 
refused  had  been  granted  by  another;  the  Jacobites  would 
go  unscathed  and  yet  he  must  bear  the  odium  of  having 
broken  his  word;  in  the  mind  of  that  girl  he  would  get  no 


WILLIAM  OF  ORANGE  249 

credit  for  this;  she  would  know  from  Jerome  Caryl  that  he 
was  not  to  be  thanked,  yet  he  would  have  gained  nothing  by 
his  seeming  perjury;  the  lords  whose  names  were  on  that 
list  would  continue  to  flaunt  with  their  heads  high;  his  labor 
had  gone  for  nothing. 

These  thoughts  rushed  upon  him  and  his  blue  eyes  lit 
dangerously. 

"Sir,  your  Majesty  is  too  careless,"  he  said.  "This  was  a 
far-reaching  conspiracy  that  with  infinite  trouble  I  fathomed 
—  plot  within  plot  —  circle  within  circle. " 

"They  can  do  nothing,  Sir  John,  now  they  are  discover'," 
answered  the  King  calmly.  "They  will  take  warning  — 
if  not,  Mon  Dieu !  What  good  are  they  without  France  ?  And 
France — will  she  move  till  she  get  v  those  papers  I  burn 
jus'  now  ?" 

"Berwick  is  in  London,"  cried  Sir  John.x 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  'im'  "  replied  William. 

As  he  thought  of  the  vast  shoal  escaping  the  net  he  had  been 
at  such  pains  to  lay  for  them,  Sir  John's  rage  rose  higher. 

"There  are  more  in  this  than  you  imagine,  sir,"  he  said 
hotly. 

"I  know  mos'  of  them,"  answered  William  with  the  same 
unmoved  demeanor.  "Every  one  about  the  Court  I  think  excep* 
Milor'  Somers,  and  Milor'  Nottingham  —  and  per'aps  pretty 
little  Shrewsbury  or  Devonshire  —  but  I  say  that  I  am  tire ' 
sir,  of  this  subject." 

"They  plot  still,"  persisted  the  Master  of  Stair,  "and  they 
plot  assassination." 

"Is  it  not  al-way'  so  ?" 

"Your  Majesty,"  cried  Sir  John,  "I  say  again  you  are 
too  careless;  for  a  certainty  my  Lord  Marlborough  is  in 


250  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

this,  and  Marlborough  is  the  army;  Russell  is  in  it,  and 
Russell  is  the  navy.  I  think  Breadalbane  has  meddled, 
though  darkly. " 

"All  this  is  mos'  true,  Sir  John,"  returned  the  King,  "but 
it  is  al-so  true  that  while  I  am  at  St.  Jame'  and  my  uncle  at 
St.  Germains  they  will  do  nothing. " 

"I  have  said  that  they  plot  assassination,  and  now  that 
you  have  destroyed  all  proof,  all  evidence,  your  Majesty's 
life  is  not  safe.  How  can  you  tell  who  is  in  this  conspiracy; 
how  judge  of  the  loyalty  of  the  men  about  you  ?  Any  one  of 
them  may  be  in  Berwick's  pay  to  murder  your  Majesty!" 

William  sat  up  and  leaned  across  the  table. 

"Sir  John,"  he  said,  "I  am  surprise'  that  a  man  of  your  — 
esprit  bring  me  these  child  tale'  —  I  do  not  think  I  shall  be 
murder',  but  I  will  take  the  risk  of  it  —  and  now  we  will 
speak  of  Scotlan'." 

His  cold  voice  was  a  dismissal  of  the  subject. 

The  Master  of  Stair  caught  his  breath  in  an  effort  at  self- 
control;  he  had  served  the  King  at  infinite  labor  and  some  risk; 
he  had  gathered  all  the  threads  of  this  conspiracy  into  his 
hands  at  the  price  of  two  men's  lives,  and  it  had  been  for 
nothing.  If  he  could  not  crush  the  Jacobites  he  wanted  at 
least  the  glory  of  sparing  them ;  and  he  had  neither  the  satis- 
faction of  one  nor  the  other;  his  wrath  rose  against  the  King, 
he  did  not  comprehend  his  motives.  His  own  impulse  was 
to  sweep  the  country  clear  of  Jacobites  by  fire  and  sword 
or,  if  it  must  be  mercy,  to  confront  them  with  proofs  of 
their  guilt  and  then  forgive  them  grandly  before  all  the 
world. 

His  passion  at  this  dismal  end  to  his  intrigues  grew  beyond 
bearing;  he  looked  up  with  lowering  brows. 


WILLIAM  OF  ORANGE  251 

"I  say  it  to  your  face,  sir,"  he  said  thickly,  "that  you  play 
a  foolish  —  and  a  dangerous  game. " 

William  of  Orange  rose  and  came  round  to  the  other  side 
of  the  bureau,  where  he  leaned  and  looked  at  the  Master  of 
Stair. 

"Whatever  game  I  play,"  he  said,  "it  is  not  that  of  being 
your  puppet,  Sir  John.  I  'ave  my  own  motive'  —  if  you  cannot 
understan'  them  — very  will  — it  make'  no  difference." 

His  green  eyes  narrowed  a  little  as  he  watched  the  furious 
face  opposite;  he  picked  up  the  riding- whip  from  the  table 
and  flicked  it  gently  to  and  fro  across  his  high  boots. 

"I  think  I  am  the  master,"  he  said,  and  his  tone  brought 
the  hot  blood  into  Sir  John's  face. 

"You  are  the  King,"  he  answered  in  a  constrained  voice. 
"But  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  believe,  sir,  that  the  King  can 
do  no  wrong." 

"No,"  said  William  quietly,  "you  think  the  King  can  be 
pull'  by  strings  —  per'aps  if  you  'ave  a  Stuart  or  a  Bour- 
bon —  but  I  —  I  'ave  rule'  before  I  am  King  —  I  do  not 
need  your  title.  I  am  Nassau.  I  will  not  be  question'  — you 
understan'  ?" 

Sir  John  put  his  hand  to  his  cravat  and  dragged  at  it;  he 
was  face  to  face  with  a  character  that  he  could  not  understand, 
and  a  spirit  every  whit  as  masterful  as  his  own.  Rage  at  his 
own  inferior  position,  the  fret  of  the  lost  chance  of  glorifica- 
tion, the  bitterness  of  being  overruled,  put  him  into  a 
passion  that  flushed  his  face  and  made  his  voice  shake. 

"Sir  —  if  your  generosity  to  your  friends  equaled  the 
generosity  you  show  your  enemies,  I  should  have  had  at 
least  some  thanks  for  my  service  —  you  are  as  ungrateful, 
sire,  as  you  — 


252  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

Abruptly  the  King  interrupted : 

"Fll  take  no  more,  Sir  John,"  he  cried;  he  eyes  half -shut 
in  a  sinister  manner  and  the  whip  tapped  faster  on  his  boot. 
"You  'ave  forgotten  you  are  not  in  your  Parliament  'ouse." 

The  Master  of  Stair  felt  he  had  gone  far  enough;  he 
acknowledged  himself  over-matched,  though  with  no  good 
grace;  he  turned  under  the  hard  gaze  of  the  King  and  muttered 
some  words  of  apology,  but  only  as  if  William's  cold  glance 
forced  him  to  them  against  his  will;  in  his  heart  he  hated 
the  man  who  overbore  him. 

Suddenly  the  King  laughed. 

"You  'ave  not  a  courteous  temperament,"  he  said.  "You 
are  too  stiff,  Sir  John,  and  too  fiery. " 

The  Master  of  Stair  bowed  and  bit  his  lip. 

The  King  crossed  to  the  chair  by  the  fire  and  sank  into  it 
with  an  air  of  weariness. 

"About  Scotlan',"  he  said  disinterestedly.  "These  'ighland- 
er'  'ave  all  come  in  ?" 

He  was  not  looking  at  the  Master,  and  did  not  see  the  glance 
Sir  John  gave  him.  He  answered  in  a  voice  unnaturally  con- 
trolled: 

"All  save  the  Macdonalds  of  Glencoe,  your  Majesty. " 

"Ah  ?"  said  the  King  indifferently.  "Will  you,  sir,  ring  the 
bell  for  the  candle  ?'  " 

Sir  John  obeyed.  His  face  was  hard,  his  lips  set  into  a 
curious  smile.  He  glanced  again  at  the  man  by  the  fire  and 
his  eyes  wore  an  unpleasant  expression. 

There  was  silence  till  the  entry  of  the  usher,  then  William 
turned  in  his  chair. 

"You  will  find  there,"  he  said  to  him,  in  French,  "letters  to 
Heinsius  and  Waldeck  —  see  that  they  are  sent  to-night. " 


WILLIAM  OF  ORANGE  253 

Again  a  pause.  A  somber  servant  entered  and  lit  the  candles, 
drew  the  curtains;  the  little  room  grew  golden  from  end  to  end. 
By  the  table  stood  the  Master  of  Stair,  motionless;  he  had 
drawn  a  paper  from  his  pocket  and  held  it  down  by  his  side, 
his  handsome  face  now  its  usual  pallor  and  the  strange  drag 
about  the  mouth,  a  distortion  that  gave  a  certain  terror  to  his 
expression. 

William  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  his  profile,  with  the  high 
nose,  arched  brows  and  sunken  cheek,  was  clearly  revealed 
in  the  candle-light;  his  hands  showed  startlingly  white  against 
his  black  dress,  and  a  diamond  on  his  first  finger  glittered  with 
many  colors. 

The  usher  took  up  the  papers  and  left,  the  door  closed 
softly  behind  him. 

Sir  John  Dalrymple  turned  slowly  to  the  King. 

"I  have  a  paper  here  for  your  Majesty's  signature,"  he 
said  quietly.  "Of  no  importance  —  merely  a  letter  to  the 
Commander  of  the  Forces  in  Scotland,  relative  to  the  preserv- 
ing of  the  peace. " 

"And  is  that  all  the  business  you  'ave  for  me  ?" 

"It  is,  your  Majesty,"  Sir  John  spoke  with  lowered 
lids. 

William  sat  up  in  his  chair. 

"Well,  'and  it  me,"  he  said.  "Bring  the  pen." 

Sir  John  brought  a  pen  and  the  paper. 

"It  is  nothing  of  importance?"  asked  William,  looking  at 
the  folded  sheet. 

"Of  none  whatever,  sir." 

The  King  affixed  his  great  scrawling  signature. 

"Take  it  to  Milor'  Nottingham  for  the  countersign,  Sir 
John." 


254  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Sir,  Lord  Nottingham  is  not  at  the  palace  to-night,  and 
it  is  desirable  that  this  go  immediately." 

William  took  the  letter,  opened  it,  laid  it  on  his  knee, 
signed  it  again  at  the  top,  and  handed  it  back  to  Sir  John. 

"I  thank  your  Majesty"  said  the  Master  of  Stair  with  a 
little  smile. 

The  King  lay  back  in  his  chair. 

"There  is  nothing  more  to-night,  I  think,  Sir  John." 

"Sire,  I  take  my  leave." 

"You  will  come  with  me  to  the  continent  in  a  few  days, 
n'est  pas  ?  Good-evenin',  Sir  John. " 

The  Master  of  Stair  bowed. 

"Take  care  of  the  tulip,  Sir  John  —  the  other  day  Milor' 
Devonshire  'e  knock  the  tips  off. " 

William  looked  toward  the  bulbs  with  the  interest  of 
the  born  gardener;  in  the  warmth  they  gave  out  a  faint 
sickly  fragrance,  a  sense  of  young  green.  "They  are  very  well," 
remarked  the  King  with  satisfaction.  "If  I  'ad  keep  them  in 
water  they  would  not  smell  so  —  is  it  not  charming  ?  Like 
it  come  through  the  window  at  Saint  Loo. " 

He  smiled  on  Sir  John,  who  bowed  without  a  word  and  left 
the  room. 

As  he  passed  down  the  long  gallery,  he  met  Argyll. 

"Ye  look  miserable,  my  lord,"  he  cried  with  a  hard  laugh. 
"Read  this." 

He  held  out  the  letter  the  King  had  just  signed. 

"Weel,"  said  the  Earl  peevishly.  "What  may  this  be?" 

Sir  John  lowered  his  voice. 

"The  authority  —  the  warrant  you  asked  for,  my  lord. 
The  King  saith  he  is  no  man's  puppet  —  but  he  has  served 
my  turn  now  —  he  signed  and  did  not  read  this  —  look 


WILLIAM  OF  ORANGE  255 

here  —  my  Lord  Argyll. "  He  pointed  out  a  clause  in  the  letter; 
it  ran: 

"As  for  Makian  of  Glencoe  and  that  tribe,  if  they  can  well 
be  distinguished  from  the  other  Highlanders,  it  will  be  proper 
for  the  vindication  of  public  justice  to  extirpate  that  set  of 
thieves. " 


CHAPTER  XXII 
THE  RESOLUTION  OF  DESPAIR 

DELIA  FEATHERSTONEHAUGH  sat  in  her 
miserable  little  lodgings  in  Southwark  and 
looked  across  the  gaunt  room  at  Jerome  Caryl. 
He  had  told  her  how  the  cold  clemency  of  the 
King  had  thwarted  all  the  schemes  of  the  Master  of  Stair, 
how  all  evidence  against  them  was  destroyed. 

Delia  listened  with  no  look  of  joy  or  relief;  she  gave  a 
bitter  laugh. 

"So  it  has  all  been  for  nothing  —  nothing,"  she  said. 
"Why  could  not  he  have  been  merciful  rather  than  the  Prince 
—  why  could  not  he  have  done  the  fine  things  ?" 

"It  is  not  in  his  nature,"  answered  Jerome  Caryl. 

"No,"  shuddered  Delia;  the  thought  of  how  he  must  have 
gone  straight  from  the  shameful  bargain  he  had  made  with 
her  to  break  it,  of  how  he  must  have  laughed  at  her  simplicity; 
had  he  had  his  way  he  would  have  had  her  and  all  of 
them  at  Tyburn;  the  thought  was  as  blasphemy,  but  it  was 
true. 

"What  will  you  do?"  she  asked  with  the  listlessness 
of  misery. 

Jerome  Caryl  smiled  faintly;  he  was  as  a  man  whose  heart 
has  left  his  work,  there  seemed  no  longer  any  zest  for  him 
in  what  till  now  had  been  his  life-work. 

"I  must  go  and  put  Berwick's  mind  at  rest,"  he  said, 

m 


THE  RESOLUTION  OF  DESPAIR  257 

"and  the  others  —  they  will  be  with  him,  I  suppose.  As 
for  the  plot  —  " 

Delia  interrupted  him  "For  me  the  plot  is  dead — I  care 
nothing  what  man  reigns.  What  are  Kings  and  countries  when 
your  own  heart  is  touched  ?  Has  not  all  we  have  done  turned 
to  nothing !  Did  not  Perseus  die  for  nothing  ?  My  God,  I 
have  done  with  plots." 

Jerome  Caryl  made  no  answer;  he  thought  of  his  own 
tangled  cause,  of  the  King  he  fought  for,  of  the  shoujting, 
lying,  pushing,  intriguing  mob  that  followed  him,  of  the 
weapons  they  stooped  to,  and  he  thought  of  William  of 
Orange  in  his  little  room  at  Kensington,  ruling  half  Europe 
and  disdaining  even  to  notice  their  designs  against  him  and 
it  seemed  to  him  he  had  been  striving  to  oppose  a  rock  with  a 
straw. 

Delia  came  suddenly  across  to  him. 

"I  cannot  talk  to-night,"  she  said  hoarsely,  "will  you  come 
again  to-morrow,  Jerome?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  a  pitying,  troubled  manner. 

"You  are  wondering  what  is  to  become  of  me  ? "  she  asked, 
meeting  his  glance.  "Well,  to-morrow  will  be  soon  enough; 
come  again  to-morrow. " 

She  sat  down  and  turned  her  face  away  as  if  she  dismissed 
him ;  Jerome  Caryl  rose  heavily. 

"Do  you  want  money?"  asked  Delia  in  a  weary  voice. 
"There  is  plenty  —  you  know  Perseus  had  the  last  sent  over 
by  the  King.  I  have  it  here. " 

"It  is  all  too  little  for  your  own  needs,"  he  answered. 
"Keep  it,  Delia." 

Her  head  had  sunk  back  against  the  plaster  wall. 

"To-morrow, then, "she  said, and  seemed  as  if  she  wished 


258  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

to  say  no  more;  but  when  he  had  his  hand  on  the  latch  he 
was  startled  by  her :  she  rose,  her  apathy  changed  into  sudden 
passion. 

"Oh,  Jerome !  Jerome !"  she  cried,  hurrying  to  him.  "Thank 
God  for  such  as  you.  Thank  God  for  truth  and  honor  and 
faithfulness.  Give  me  your  hand  and  look  at  me  and  say  — 
God  bless  you,  Delia!"  She  swayed  toward  him  with  a  little 
sob  and  caught  his  arm;  he  was  greatly  moved. 

"While  I  live,  sweet  soul,"  he  answered,  "I  would  not  have 
you  fear  anything.  God  bless  you  truly,  dear,  God  bless 
you,  Delia  —  " 

She  bent  her  head  and  kissed  his  hand,  then  lifted  her  eyes 
to  his  with  a  strange  took.  "Farewell,  Jerome,"  she  said  in  a 
broken  voice,  and  fell  back  against  the  wall;  the  contrast 
of  her  pitiful  pale  youth  and  the  sordid  surroundings  touched 
Jerome  Caryl  deeply. 

"You  must  leave  this  place, "  he  said. 

She  stopped  him  with  that  word  again.   "To-morrow." 

And  so,  leaning  against  the  wall,  she  stood  till  he  had  gone, 
then  turned  about,  murmuring  to  herself. 

"An  honorable  gentleman  —  why  could  not  I  have  loved 
an  honorable  gentleman  ?" 

She  paced  to  and  fro  with  unheeding  steps. 

"False  and  false  —  liar  and  dishonored  —  yet  —  '  Her 
tears  rose  beyond  control ;  she  fell  to  her  knees  and  wept  with 
hidden  face,  bitterly  and  silently. 

The  fire  dropped  to  a  heap  of  gray  ashes;  the  light  had 
faded  when  at  length  Delia  rose,  and  moving  to  the  window, 
set  it  wider  open. 

The  sun  was  sinking  behind  the  housetops;  heavy  snow- 
laden  clouds  lay  to  the  right  and  left  of  it  and  the  whole  west 


THE  RESOLUTION  OF  DESPAIR  259 

was  golden.  A  cold  wind  touched  her  tear-stained  face  and 
ruffled  her  tumbled  hair;  the  sun's  reflection  burnt  like  flame 
in  the  window-pane  and  cast  a  dazzle  along  the  thin  frosting 
of  snow  on  the  ledges  opposite. 

It  was  silent  as  night;  she  was  too  high  to  view  the  street; 
but  a  sign  hanging  from  one  of  the  houses  opposite,  she  caught 
sight  of,  the  image  of  a  peacock  in  full  splendor  and  the  sun 
glittered  on  that  in  vived  blue  and  green. 

Then  gradually  the  sky  faded  into  a  soft  violet  and  the 
great  clouds  closed  over  the  sun. 

Delia  left  the  window  and  taking  her  cloak  from  the  wall, 
put  it  on  with  steady  hands;  then  she  dragged  a  small  box 
from  the  corner  into  the  light  and  opened  it. 

From  the  many  little  articles  it  contained,  she  selected  a 
plain  ring  that  had  belonged  to  Perseus,  a  leathern  purse  of 
money  and  a  gilt  button  that  had  once  belonged  to  her  father's 
uniform. 

These  things  she  placed  carefully  within  her  pocket, 
then  taking  pen  and  paper  from  the  box,  she  sat  down  and 
wrote  across  it: 

Even  had  there  been  no  other  motive  to  take  me  away,  I  could 
never  have  stayed  to  be  a  burden  on  your  charity.  I  set  out  to  do  the 
one  thing  that  maketh  life  worth  the  holding.  Do  not  regret  or  pity 
me  and  God  keep  ye  always  for  the  comfort  ye  have  been  to  me. 

She  folded  this  and  addressed  it  to  Jerome  Caryl,  her  eyes 
lifted  to  the  fast-darkening  sky;  her  lips  were  resolutely  set. 
With  a  steady  step  she  turned  from  the  room  and  down  the 
narrow  stairs. 

Calling  the  woman  of  the  house,  she  gave  her  money 
and  the  letter  for  Caryl. 


260  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"He  will  come  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "Do  not  fail  to  re- 
member to  give  him  that. " 

The  woman  began  to  whimper. 

"Woe  is  me  for  the  Good  cause!"  she  cried  dismally. 
"Will  there  be  a  to-morrow  for  any  of  us  ?" 

"Ye  are  all  safe,"  answered  Delia  steadily,  "I  do  not  fly 
for  fear  —  farewell. " 

She  turned  abruptly  into  the  quiet  street  and  turned  toward 
the  country. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 
JAMES  FITZJAMES 

AS  Jerome  Caryl  turned  up  the  stairs  of  the  Duke 
of  Berwick's  lodging,  he  was  greeted  by  a  hubbub 
of  noise,  above  which  rose  the  prolonged  giggle  of 
a  man  and  the  interchange  of  women's  voices. 

Jerome  opened  the  door  without  ceremony  and  stepped  in. 

The  center  of  the  room  was  occupied  by  a  long  table,  sur- 
rounded by  a  varied  company,  who  laughed,  talked,  and  sang 
with  little  regard  for  each  other;  at  the  head  of  the  table 
sprawled  a  very  tall  young  man  in  a  soiled  blue  satin  suit  and 
torn  cravat;  his  wig  hung  on  the  knob  of  his  chair,  his  fair 
hair  fell  untidily  over  his  blond  face;  his  was  the  good- 
humored,  high-pitched  giggle  that  rose  above  all  other  sounds. 

The  rest  of  the  company  was  mostly  ill-clad  and  ill-looking, 
though  a  certain  careless  good  nature  redeemed  most  of  the 
faces;  of  the  two  women  present  one  was  a  dark-skinned  girl 
with  an  arched  nose  and  a  quantity  of  heavy  black  hair,  the 
other  a  slim  and  elegant  lady,  who  sat  a  little  apart  from  the 
others;  her  companion,  a  gentleman,  better  attired  than  the 
others  and  who  showed  signs  of  great  agitation,  glancing 
round,  wringing  his  hands  and  dabbing  his  face  with  his 
handkerchief.  At  Jerome  Caryl's  entry  he  gave  a  great  start 
and  something  like  a  suppressed  shriek,  an  action  that  brought 
on  him  a  glance  of  contempt  from  the  lady. 

"La !"  cried  the  tall  young  man  as  he  caught  sight  of  the 

261 


262  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

new-comer.  "We  wasn't  expecting  you,  Caryl  —  we  thought 
you  was  on  a  visit  to  little  Hooknose. " 

"I  am  free,  sir, "  answered  Caryl,  advancing  into  the  company, 
"I  thought  your  grace  had  left  England,"  he  added  briefly. 

"Sink  me,  if  I  can,"  smiled  Berwick,  good-humoredly. 
"Hunt's  cottage  ain't  in  working;  who  is  going  to  take  me 
across  the  Channel  ?  Therefore  here  we  are  —  eating,  drink- 
ing, making  merry  — for  to-morrow  we  die."  And  he  giggled 
again. 

Jerome  Caryl's  melancholy  eyes  traveled  with  a  faint  disgust 
round  the  company;  he  dropped  into  the  vacant  seat  beside 
Berwick  and  briefly  narrated  what  had  occurred  at  Kensing- 
ton. 

The  gathering  listened  eagerly,  for  there  had  been  anxiety 
under  this  daredevil  show. 

As  Caryl  ceased  there  was  silence  for  the  space  of  a  second, 
then  the  Duke  of  Berwick  burst  into  a  great  laugh. 

"I  never  thought  my  little  cousin  was  just  a  fool !"  he  cried. 
"La!  to  think  of  it — Oh,  la!"  His  merriment  was  echoed 
round  the  table;  relief  and  the  sense  of  safety  lent  a  greater 
zest  to  the  enjoyment;  above  the  babble  rose  the  scream  oi 
a  woman's  voice. 

"A  toast,  gentlemen!  A  toast!" 

The  dark  girl  climbed  onto  the  table  with  the  aid  of  hei 
companion  and  stood  there  among  the  glasses,  her  own  in 
her  hand. 

"Here's  to  the  squeezing  of  the  rotten  Orange!"  she  cried, 
"and  may  we  be  all  there  to  see  it  done. " 

Vast  applause  greeted  her  from  all  save  the  lady  and  hei 
companion,  who  withdrew  still  further  into  the  background, 
and  Jerome  Caryl,  who  sat  silent. 


JAMES  FITZJAMES  263 

"Oh,  dear,  oh,  la!"  giggled  Berwick.  "Ain't  it  amusing  ? 
Celia,  my  dear,  give  us  another  toast!" 

Celia  Hunt  leaped  lightly  from  the  table. 

"Your  turn,  your  Highness,"  she  cried. 

Berwick  rose  and  made  her  a  swaggering  bow. 

"May  every  Jack  in  gaol  break  free  as  cleverly  as  you  did," 
he  said,  then  slipped  back  into  his  chair  as  the  toast  was  drunk 
amid  yells  of  merriment. 

Jerome  Caryl  laid  his  hand  on  the  Duke's  arm.  "Sir,"  he 
said  coldly  in  a  low  tone,  "you  are  aware  that  our  enterprise 
is  done  —  damned  ?  These  papers  on  which  we  staked  every- 
thing are  gone  —  we  shall  not  rouse  France  without  them. " 

Berwick  winked. 

"We'll  manage  without  France, "  he  said  and  smiled  round 
the  table. 

"Your  grace  knows  that  is  impossible  —  and  we  are  watch- 
ed —  Sir  John  Dalrymple  knows  much  —  it  will  be  impossible 
to  mature  fresh  schemes  —  to  obtain  those  signatures  again. " 

"La!  we  don't  want  'em,"  cried  Berwick.  "We  have  a 
scheme  of  our  own  —  suggested  by  Mr.  Porter  — "  he  nodded 
toward  one  of  the  company,  "it  don't  want  any  help  of  the 
Frenchies  or  the  Whigs  — la!  it's  mighty  clever!" 

"Well,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Porter  from  the  other  end  of  the 
table,  "it  is  quick — and  effectual." 

And  he  laughed  across  at  Celia  Hunt. 

"I  do  not  understand,"  said  Jerome  Caryl. 

"There  now!"  giggled  Berwick.  "Caryl  don't  understand 

—  sink  me  if  I  did  at  first  when  they  started  with  their  hints 

—  certainly,  I  didn't!" 

He  made  a  lazy  gesture  over  his  shoulder.  "Come  here,  my 
lady  and  help  us  explain. " 


264  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

The  lady  came  forward  to  the  table;  as  the  light  fell  over 
her  face  Jerome  Caryl  gave  a  little  start;  he  recognized  her 
as  the  Countess  of  Breadalbane. 

She  appeared  composed,  but  there  was  no  color  in  her  face; 
she  addressed  Berwick,  utterly  ignoring  the  rest. 

"Ye  ken  vera  weel,  sir,"  she  said  in  a  rapid  whisper,  "that 
I  and  my  cousin  are  here  for  the  ane  purpose  of  getting  back 
from  ye  the  dutiful  letters  my  lord  and  my  cousin  indited  to 
be  sent  to  King  James  —  which  —  seeing  the  plot  is  ruined  — 
are  better,  ye  ken,  in  the  fire." 

"I  don't  know  where  they  are,"  smiled  Berwick  vacantly. 
"I  enclosed  'em  in  my  letter  to  my  father  —  la !  I  don't 
know!" 

Lady  Breadalbane  looked  as  if  she  could  have  shaken  him 
with  pleasure;  the  even  voice  of  Jerome  Caryl  broke  in: 

"I  have  already  told  his  grace  that  his  grace's  letters  to 
France  were  burnt  with  the  rest  at  Kensington  by  the  Prince. " 

The  Countess's  green  eyes  flashed  to  the  speaker's  face; 
she  gave  him  a  long  look  and  flushed. 

Berwick's  foolish  laugh  rose  in  the  pause.  "That  ain't  all 
you  came  for,  my  lady,"  he  said.  "You  know  Breadalbane  has 
promised  his  aid  — " 

"Ah,  hush,"  she  said  with  a  look  at  Caryl.  "Ye  ken  that 
Jock  is  in  the  Hielands  and  that  is  why  I  came  to  regain  the 
paper  —  which  —  since  it  is  burnt  —  we  will  be  taking  our 
leave." 

Berwick  stared. 

"La,  now,  ain't  you  cautious !"  he  cried,  with  his  pale  blue 
eyes  wide  open.  "You  ain't  afraid  of  Caryl !  Sink  me  if  it  don't 
look  like  it  —  why  Jerome  Caryl  is  to  be  trusted  like  your 
own  right  hand." 


JAMES  FITZJAMES  265 

"I  hav'na'  a  doot  of  it,"  she  answered  quickly.  "But  there 
is  na  occasion  for  ony  more  than  need  to  be  kenning  the  part 
my  lord  takes  in  this  — " 

At  this  a  murmur  arose  from  those  who  had  been  hushed 
to  catch  her  words ;  Porter  demanded  why  Breadalbane  should 
always  be  shielded  when  better  men  came  to  the  fore; 
and  Celia  Hunt  muttered  an  audible  sneer  about  Scottish 
caution. 

The  Countess  Peggy  looked  round  the  company  defiantly; 
her  eyes  fell  mistrustfully  to  the  unmoved  face  of  Jerome 
Caryl;  an  unpleasant  pause  was  broken  by  the  Earl  of  Argyll, 
coming  forward. 

"I'm  awa',"  he  said,  lapsing  in  his  agitation  into  a  broad 
accent.  "I'm  no' meddling  any  further  — I  came  for  a  paper 
—  the  whilk  is  burnt  and  I'm  ganging  —  I  willna'  listen  to  yer 
treasonable  practices  —  no,  but  I  wish  ye  success,"  he  added 
hastily,  "but  I'm  ganging." 

His  cousin  turned  on  him. 

"Then  gang,  cousin  Archibald,"  she  said  angrily.  "Take 
your  puir  white  face  awa'  —  I  willna'  come  with  ye  —  I'm 
staying." 

This  redeemed  her  with  the  company  who  murmured 
approval,  under  cover  of  which  Argyll  slipped  out. 

"Supposing  he  goes  straight  to  my  cousin  at  Kensington  ?" 
asked  Berwick,  looking  after  the  Earl. 

"He  willna',"  answered  the  Countess  hastily,  "he  has  gone 
too  deep  —  he  willna'  dare  to  open  up  what  will  be  exposing 
himself." 

"No,  but  I  wish  ye  success,"  mocked  Berwick.  "But  I'm 
ganging!" 

They  all  laughed. 


266  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Even  if  he  did  want  to  inform  —  there  won't  be  time, " 
cried  Porter.  "To-day  is  Thursday  and  on  Saturday  — 

"We  shall  be  meeting  on  Turnham  Green!"  shouted  an- 
other. 

"To  drink  the  health  of  the  King  over  the  water !" 
"God  save  His  Majesty!" 
"Down  with  little  Hooknose!" 

"Saturday  —  and  don't  be  afraid  of  breaking  the  glass 
windows,  Mr.  Porter!" 

"Nor  of  frightening  the  horses !"  shrieked  Celia  Hunt. 
Through  this  hubbub  rose  Berwick's  voice : 
"Oh,  la !  Oh,  dear !  Ain't  it  amusing !" 

Porter  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  thumping  the  table  with 
a  bottle  till  silence  was  obtained,  commenced  to  sing  in  a 
powerful  deep  voice: 

Oh,  our  loyal  hearts  were  tired 

Of  a  Dutchman  on  the  throne 

And  an  harquebus  we  fired 

To  give  the  King  his  own 

And  across  the  Straits  of  Dover 

Our  gallant  King  came  over, 

Came  triumphantly  over  to  his  own  I 

They  caught  up  the  chorus  in  various  keys. 
And  across  the  Straits  of  Dover 
Our  gallant  King  came  over, 
Came  triumphantly  over  to  his  own  I 

Berwick  rose,  excited  by  the  swinging  tune,  his  tall  shadow 
»vas  flung  wavering  up  the  wall  and  over  the  ceiling;  his  under- 
jawed  hair  face  with  the  heavy-lidded  eyes  was  an  almost 
exact  likeness  of  King  James  in  his  youth;  Porter  looked  at 
him  and  sung: 


JAMES  FITZJAMES  267 

Oh,  the  Dutchman  ruled  us  sourly, 
And  discontented  we  had  grown, 
We  watched  the  Channel  hourly 
For  the  King  to  take  his  own. 

Wildly  the  chorus  rose : 

And  across  the  Straits  of  Dover 

Our  gallant  King  came  over, 

Came  triumphantly  over  to  his  own  I 

Jerome  Caryl  glanced  at  Lady  Breadalbane;  she  was  the 
only  one  silent  save  himself;  she  sat  still  with  downcast  eyes, 
but  he  fancied  that  she  was  in  great  anxiety. 

Again  the  stalwart  voice  of  Porter  rose: 

Oh,  the  Dutchman  went  to  Hell, 

And  an  English  flag  in  England  flew, 

And  England  liked  it  well 

When  the  King  o  England  got  his  own. 

When  across  the  Straits  of  Dover 

The  English  King  came  over, 

Came  triumphantly  over  to  his  own  I 

Porter  sat  down  amid  ringing  applause  from  all  save  Caryl, 
who  remarked  dryly : 

"Surely  it  should  not  have  been  in  the  past  tense,  your 
grace,  since  these  wonders  remain  yet  to  be  performed." 

Berwick  slipped  back  into  his  chair. 

"La,  ain't  you  glum,  Caryl !       Wait  till  Saturday  — " 

The  word  was  echoed  round  the  table: 

"Saturday!  Let  us  drink  to  Saturday!" 

Berwick  filled  his  glass  with  no  very  steady  hand. 

"You  drink, "  he  said  to  Caryl,  "to  the  sticking  of  the  rotten 
Orange  —  to  Saturday,  Turnham  Green  — 

Jerome  Caryl  looked  round  the  flushed,  excited  faces;  there 


268  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

was  not  one  there  completely  master  of  his  wits,  not  one  cool 
head  among  them;  the  only  one  who  sat  collected  and  quiet 
was  Lady  Breadalbane. 

"You  have  not  explained  yourself,  sir,"  said  Jerome  in  a 
cold  disgust.  "I  know  nothing  of  these  plans  formed  behind 
my  back.  I  only  know  that  the  plot  I  had  in  hand  has  fallen 
through  —  and  that  every  man  engaged  in  it  is  better  beyond 
seas." 

Berwick  laughed. 

"This  is  none  of  your  labored  schemes  for  landing  the 
French,  Caryl  —  it  is  a  neat  little  affair  between  me  —  these 
gentlemen  and  Breadalbane." 

The  Countess  glanced  up  at  her  husband's  name  and  looked 
quickly  at  Caryl  as  he  answered: 

"You  still  speak  in  riddles,  your  grace." 

"La !  ain't  you  tiresome  ?  Don't  you  remember  the  Grand- 
val  affair?" 

"My  God!  Is  this  such  another?" 

"No  —  it  ain't  so  clumsy  —  Grandval  was  a  damned  crazy 
foreigner  who  bungled  the  job  — " 

"But  your  intentions,  your  grace,  are  the  same. " 

"I  tell  you  —  we  ain't  going  to  bungle !" 

"No  firing  —  the  cold  steel !"  cried  Porter. 

Jerome  Caryl  rose  from  his  seat  beside  Berwick  and  looked 
down  the  table;  the  light  was  strong  on  his  grave  face  and  the 
Countess  Peggy  never  took  her  gaze  from  him. 

"So  —  you  plan  to  murder  the  Prince  of  Orange?"  said 
Jerome  calmly. 

There  was  an  annoyed  silence;  a  half-sullen  uneasiness 
seemed  to  pervade  the  company,  then  Berwick  said,  in  an 
unwilling  manner:  "It  ain't  murder  —  we're  just  going  to 


JAMES  FITZJAMES  269 

take  him  off  —  when  he  changes  coaches  at  the  river  —  as  he 
always  does  on  Saturday  when  he  goes  hunting  — " 

"Twenty  men  to  one,"  answered  Jerome.  "It  is  murder." 

Berwick  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  "You  use  ugly 
words,  Caryl. " 

"Yet  I  state  your  meaning,  sir." 

"I  said  nothing  of  —  murder. " 

"You  spoke  of  making  away  with  the  Prince. " 

"A  lucky  thrust  —  a  lucky  shot. " 

"Such  as  might  happen  any  day,"  finished  Porter. 

"In  war,"  said  Caryl. 

"Isn't  it  always  war — till  the  King  returns?" 

"You  plan  murder. " 

"By  God,  Caryl,  you  go  too  far. " 

"Your  grace  goes  farther," 

"In  the  service  of  the  King  —  yes. " 

"Perhaps  —  honor  is  above  the  King. " 

"No  cant,  Mr.  Caryl,"  shouted  Porter. 

"I  will  not  commit  murder." 

"Who  asked  it  ?  We  want  no  help. " 

"But  my  silence  is  to  condone  it. " 

"You  need  know  no  more  —  if  you  are  afraid. " 

"I  know  too  much  already  —  by  Heaven  —  too  much. " 

"These  words  of  yours  spell  —  traitor !" 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  that  imputation. " 

"Nor  we  of  you  —  Mr.  Caryl. " 

"I  said  only  this  — " 

"What  ?  —  no  shilly-shallying. " 

"I  will  not  do  this  thing. " 

"You  will  not  ?" 

"No  —  nor  see  it  done. " 


270  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"You  cannot  help  it. " 

"Mr.  Porter,  I  can  endeavor  to  help  it." 

"That  means  —  traitor !" 

"Your  insult  is  powerless." 

"Mr.  Caryl  —  you  are  a  coward. " 

Here  Berwick,  who,  like  every  one,  had  been  listening  in- 
tently to  the  sharp  exchange  of  words,  interposed  "I  don't 
think  you  quite  understand,  Caryl  —  la!  It  has  been  tried 
before,  ain't  it  ?" 

Jerome  Caryl  turned  to  the  Duke. 

"I  think  you  do  not  understand,"  he  said  calmly. 

"You  know,  sir,  that  we  all  owe  our  lives  to  the  clemency 
of  this  man  whom  you  would  assassinate  ? " 

"Bah!"  said  Berwick  fretfully. 

Jerome  continued  steadily. 

"He  would  not  even  know  the  names  —  he  would  not  even 
lay  on  us  the  humiliation  of  a  pardon.  He  could  have  sent  us 
to  the  gallows  by  the  lifting  of  his  finger." 

.  "Well,  why  didn't  he  do  it  ?"  demanded  Berwick.  "Because 
he  was  afraid,  of  course;  because  he  didn't  dare  touch  us." 

A  loud  assent  went  up;  Caryl  stepped  back  a  little  from  his 
place  with  a  gleam  in  his  eyes. 

"This  is  not  the  way  to  win  England  for  the  Stuarts, "  he  said. 

"Traitor!"  yelled  Porter  again,  rising  from  his  seat. 

"It  is  you  who  soil  your  cause  by  these  vile  suggestions," 
flung  back  Jerome. 

Berwick  rose;  his  narrow  face  crimson;  he  made  as  if  to 
speak;  but  Porter,  in  ungovernable  fury,  had  seized  one  of  the 
candlesticks  and  flung  it  past  the  Duke  at  Jerome;  as  it  crash- 
ed to  the  ground,  some  one  drew  his  sword  and  Celia  Hunt 
climbed  onto  the  table,  shrieking. 


JAMES   FITZJAMES  271 

"A  pretty  fellow  you  to  talk! "she  cried.  "You who  let  the 
Master  of  Stair  rob  you  under  your  nose  —  /  knew  him  at 
sight  for  a  spy  —  and  so  did  you  —  you  canting  rogue !" 

Jerome  did  not  look  at  her,  but,  in  the  diversion  she  caused 
the  whole  company,  glanced  round  the  confusion  for  Lady 
Breadalbane;  she  had  disappeared. 

"Speak  for  yourself,  Caryl,"  said  Berwick,  through  the 
hubbub.  "I  ain't  believing  that  you  wouldn't  fall  in  with  us." 

But  ere  Caryl  could  answer  Porter,  who  had  fought  his 
way  through  the  press,  struck  him  full  on  the  chest  and  Caryl 
staggering,  the  two  men  closed,  struggled  together,  forcing 
each  other  toward  the  door;  a  yell  rose  from  the  room;  Ber- 
wick gave  a  loud  hysterical  giggle;  now  Jerome  Caryl  had 
Porter  by  the  collar,  shaking  him  furiously;  he  flung  him  to 
the  ground,  instantly  opened  the  door  and  darted  through  it. 

There  was  a  bolt  on  the  outside  and  he  slipped  it;  a  con- 
fusion of  noise  rose  from  within ;  laughter  seemingly  at  Porter's 
discomfiture;  he  heard  Celia  Hunt  screaming  and  Berwick's 
falsetto  rising  higher  and  higher. 

"Oh,  la!  ain't  it  amusing!  Oh,  dear,  oh,  la!" 

Waiting  for  no  more  Jerome  Caryl  turned  swiftly  down  the 
stairs  while  behind  him  rose  a  drunken  shout : 

And  across  the  Straits  of  Dover 

Our  gallant  King  came  over, 

Came  triumphantly  over  to  his  own  I 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
THE  LOVE  OF  MARGARET  CAMPBELL 

AS  Jerome  Caryl  reached  the  street,  softly  closing  the 
door  behind  him,  a  woman's  voice  fell  on  his  ears 
out  of  the  darkness. 
"Mr.  Caryl!  Mr.  Caryl!" 

He  looked  about  him  and  discerned   a  shadow  among 
shadows,  a  huge  coach,  a  few  paces  from  the  house. 

In  the  open  door  stood  the  Countess  Peggy,  the  coach  light 
showing  her  in  a  misty  radiance. 

She  beckoned  to  him  and  he  crossed  the  cobbles  to  her  side. 

"Mr.  Caryl  —  I  have  been  waiting  for  ye.  I  slipped  awa'  when 
they  grew  noisy  —  I  was  wondering  if  they  would  let  ye  go." 

She  fixed  her  eyes  on  his  face. 

"Maybe  they  will  be  pursuing  ye  ?" 

"I  do  not  think  so,"  Jerome  Caryl  answered  evenly,  "their 
wits  are  confused  —  they  hardly  know  that  I  have  gone. " 

"Ah  —  then  —  come  with  me  —  in  the  coach,   it  gangs 
faster  —" 

"I  think,  my  lady,  there  is  no  need,"  he  smiled  in  some 
surprise. 

But  she  laid  her  hand  vehemently  on  his  arm.   "I  want  to 
speak  to  you  —  an'  ye  will  be  safer  in  the  coach  — " 

She  made  a  gesture  toward  the  house. 

"They  may  follow  ye  —  come  —  I  will  take  it  across  the 
river  — " 

272 


THE  LOVE  OF  MARGARET  CAMPBELL   273 

There  was  so  much  anxiety,  and  intensity  in  her  face  and 
words  that  Jerome  Caryl  was  impressed;  he  might  as  well 
cross  the  river  in  her  coach  as  not,  he  quietly  assented. 

"A  look  of  great  relief  came  over  her  face ;  she  hurried  round 
to  the  box  where  two  servants  sat,  calling  to  them  some  in- 
structions in  Gaelic,  then  returning  to  Caryl  sprang  lightly 
past  him  into  the  coach. 

He  mounted  after  her  and  the  horses  started  at  a  brisk  pace. 

It  was  a  cold,  raw  night,  and  the  blinds  were  drawn  tight 
over  the  windows;  the  interior  of  the  coach  was  upholstered 
in  a  somber  red  leather  and  the  one  lamp  filled  it  with  a  gloomy 
light.  The  Countess  Peggy  had  at  once  drawn  herself  away 
into  the  corner  furthest  from  Jerome.  She  was  hatless  and  her 
red  hair  in  a  confusion  of  curls,  lay  spread  over  her  black 
velvet  coat;  a  gray  fur  mantle  wrapped  her  about  and  fell  in 
heavy  folds  on  the  floor;  round  her  throat  hung  a  long  lace 
scarf  reaching  to  her  waist;  her  gloves  and  muff  lay  on  the 
seat  beside  her.  Something  in  the  situation,  the  confined 
strange  atmosphere  of  the  coach,  the  swift  motion  and  the 
beautiful,  curious  face  of  the  woman  opposite,  appealed  to 
Jerome  Caryl;  he  was  interested,  affected  by  what  he  could  not 
tell;  he  looked  at  her  with  no  desire  to  speak  and  a  heavy 
silence  fell.  Gradually  the  frosty  mist  penetrated  and  a  hazy 
ring  grew  round  the  lamp;  the  coach  swung  monotonously 
from  side  to  side.  The  Countess  Peggy  looked  up;  her  green 
eyes  were  wild. 

"Ye  are  ganging  to  Kensington,"  she  said  in  a  voice  muf- 
fled but  steady. 

He  turned  so  that  he  could  see  her  with  the  greater  ease. 

"Yes,  madam." 

The  words  came  clearly  above  the  rumbling  of  the  wheels. 


274  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"You  are  going  to  inform,"  she  said,  with  the  same  steadi- 
ness. 

He  leaned  forward  a  little. 

"The  Prince  will  riot  go  hunting  in  Hampton  Court  on 
Saturday,  madam." 

"Ye  are  ganging  to  betray  us,"  said  the  Countess.  "I  knew 
it." 

"It  is  not  the  right  word,"  he  answered.  "I  shall  warn  the 
Prince  —  no  more." 

She  looked  at  him  quickly  and  quietly  then  burst  out  con- 
temptuously : 

"Ye  lie!  lie!  lie!  Ye  will  gie  every  name  ye  know  to  the 
Prince!" 

Jerome  Caryl  smiled;  she  sat  upright  with  clasped  hands. 

"I  knew  it.  When  across  the  room  I  saw  your  face  as  the 
fule  Berwick  spoke  of  his  plans.  I  saw  that  ye  meant  to  betray 
us,  Ah,  they  talk  of  their  man's  sagacity  but  a  woman  can 
see  clearer  —  Berwick  did  not  see  —  I  did." 

"Berwick  knows  me  better,  madam." 

She  took  no  heed  of  the  quiet  words. 

"Ye  will  tell  the  Prince  every  name  ye  know,"  she  said 
hoarsely.  "And  if  ye  dinna  —  they  will  discover  once  ye  have 
lodged  the  information." 

She  shuddered  further  into  her  corner;  her  whole  face  and 
figure  seemed  m  sty  to  Jerome  in  the  wavering  light;  only  her 
eyes,  fixed  on  him,  were  clear  and  brilliant. 

"Will  ye  do  it  —  will  ye  no  reflect  ?" 

There  was  no  doubting  her  controlled  agitation,  the  distress 
in  her  accents ;  Jerome,  who  had  been  studying  her  curiously, 
spoke  now  with  a  deepening  of  curios  ty;  he  spoke  under  his 
breath  softly. 


THE  LOVE  OF  MARGARET  CAMPBELL   275 

"You  are  not  involved — "  he  said.  "For  whom  are  you 
afraid?" 

Her  eyes  traveled  slowly  over  him. 

"My  husband,"  she  said  intensely. 

He  gave  a  little  laugh  and  lifted  his  shoulders ;  Breadalbane 
was  a  byword  for  cunning  hypocrisy;  her  devotion  jarred  as 
strangely  out  of  place. 

"Others  beside  your  husband  would  fall  if  I  —  or  any  in- 
formed," he  answered  quietly. 

She  sat  up,  shaking  her  furs  to  the  floor.  "I  care  only  for 
my  husband." 

The  coach  rattled  and  shook  and  the  lamp-wick  leaped  and 
flickered. 

"Only  for  my  husband  —  and  if  his  share  in  this  is  dis- 
covered it  means  ruin  —  if  not  death  —  to  him. " 

The  very  words  seemed  to  come  with  an  effort  from  her 
tongue;  she  blenched  at  the  bare  thought  of  the  possibility 
she  spoke  of. 

"I  shall  not  mention  your  husband's  name,"  said  Jerome 
Caryl. 

"If  ye  put  them  on  the  track  they  will  discover  for  them- 
selves. " 

"Lord  Breadalbane  has  weathered  rougher  storms." 

"He  has  gone  farther  than  ye  ken  —  and  this  assassina- 
tion — " 

Her  voice  trailed  off  into  silence;  she  sat  upright,  gazing  in 
front  of  her;  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap;  as  the  coach  shook 
on  its  way,  her  hair  was  flung  back  from  her  face  and  Jerome 
Caryl's  sword-hilt  rattled  against  the  door;  this  was  the  only 
sound,  this  and  the  rattle  of  the  wheels;  he  thought  she  was 
going  to  say  no  more  and  was  marveling  at  her  containment, 


276  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

when  she  broke  the  stillness  by  leaning  over  toward  him. 

"Dinna  gang  to  Kensington. " 

Her  voice,  suppressed,  with  a  note  of  agony  in  it,  made 
Jerome  Caryl  start. 

"I  can  make  you  rich,"  she  continued  quickly.  "We  can  do 
anything  for  you  —  ask  it  —  anything.  Jock  can  twirl  Scot- 
land round  his  finger.  He  will  give  ye  any  place  ye  like  if  ye 
will  be  silent. " 

A  slow  flush  overspread  Caryl's  smooth  face.  "Why  —  you 
can  hardly  know  what  you  ask,"  he  said.  "It  is  that  I  should 
sanction  murder  and  the  murder  of  a  man  who  spared  my  life 
and  the  lives  of  all  my  friends  —  do  you  —  a  woman  —  wish 
to  see  that  done  ?  " 

She  answered  desperately: 

"I  dinna  care  —  if  Jock  is  engaged  in  the  matter  —  I  am 
Jock's  wife. " 

She  sat  silent  a  moment,  then  broke  forth  again: 

"We  would  pay  ye  vera  weel  —  consider,"  Jerome  Caryl 
laughed. 

"You  have  utterly  mistaken  me.  I  am  not  a  spy  to  be  bought 
by  the  highest  bidder.  Nothing  shall  prevent  me  from  warning 
the  Prince." 

She  flared  into  a  kind  of  contemptuous  despair.  "The 
Prince !  What  is  he  to  ye  ?  " 

"A  man  —  a  gentleman  —  you  cannot  say  so  much  for 
Berwick  —  or  any  of  his  crew. " 

"In  your  eyes  a  usurper,"  she  cried,  striving  to  goad  him, 
"a  foreign  usurper  — " 

"Madam  —  he  said  to  me  — 'there  are  some  things  I  will 
not  do'  —  and  I  say  the  same  to  you  now  —  I  will  not  let 
that  man  be  murdered. " 


THE  LOVE  OF  MARGARET  CAMPBELL       277 

She  was  silent  again  as  if  she  had  nothing  to  oppose  against 
his  resolution;  she  gazed  in  a  strange  terrified  manner  at  his 
calm,  soft  face,  his  melancholy  hazel  eyes  and  the  color  of 
excitement  leaped  into  her  cheeks  to  pale  and  leaped  thither 
again. 

"We  must  be  near  the  river,"  he  said,  and  put  out  his  hand 
to  lift  the  blind. 

But  she  flung  out  her  arm  and  intercepted  him. 

"Nay  —  not  yet  —  not  yet  —  and  keep  the  night  shut  out. 
Oh,  God,  the  night !"  The  next  second  she  was  on  her  knees 
on  the  floor  of  the  coach. 

"For  pity  —  for  God's  sake  — "  she  cried  passionately. 
"Ye  dinna  ken  what  it  means  to  me  — " 

He  sprang  up  in  his  amazement  and  the  shock  of  seeing 
her  crouching  before  him  with  upturned  white  face,  brought 
the  color  to  his  cheek. 

"Lady  Breadalbane!" 

She  clung  to  him  in  an  eager  agony  of  entreaty. 

"Show  this  mercy  now  —  by  all  ye  ever  held  dear.  I  canna 
find  words  to  entreat  ye  deep  enough. " 

"Lady  Breadalbane,  I  must  warn  the  Prince." 

"Ye  know  not  what  ye  are  doing !" 

Down  at  his  very  feet  now  she  pleaded;  her  white  arms 
and  her  fallen  hair  hid  her  face  as  she  knelt  there,  her  voice 
faint  with  the  intensity  of  her  entreaties,  as  if  she  strove  for 
her  life  —  her  soul. 

He  lifted  her  up,  trembling  a  little,  and  put  her  on  the  seat; 
her  hands  touched  his  and  he  found  them  cold,  her  head 
brushed  his  shoulder  for  a  moment  and  her  face  was  close  to 
his. 

"Will  ye  —  will  ye  ?"  she  panted. 


278  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"No!  no.'" 

The  coach  swung  on  its  way  groaning.  "Where  do  we  ride  ?" 
he  demanded.  "We  go  over  smooth  ground  now  —  a  country 
road  —  " 

"No,"  she  breathed,  and  clung  to  him  when  he  would  have 
risen  and  looked  from  the  window.  "No!  we  ride  aright!" 

It  was  not  London's  cobbled  streets  that  they  sped  over 
now ;  smoothly  and  swiftly  they  rode  along. 

"Where  do  ye  take  me  ?"  he  cried  again. 

She  leaned  heavily  against  his  shoulder  so  that  he  could  not 
rise. 

"Be  merciful,"  she  cried.  "Dinna  gang  to  Kensington!'1 

But  her  emotion,  her  passionate  entreaties,  the  strange  hint 
of  warning  in  her  voice  were  powerless  to  touch  his  set  purpose. 

"Neither  God  nor  man,"  he  said,  "can  move  me  —  I  have 
sworn  to  myself  to  warn  the  Prince." 

The  coach  suddenly  stopped. 

"I  also  have  sworn,"  answered  Lady  Breadalbane. 

They  both  rose;  something  fell  with  a  clatter  on  the  floor. 

It  was  his  sword. 

She  put  her  foot  on  it;  he  looked  in  her  eyes  and  saw  that 
she  had  unbuckled  it  while  she  had  lain  against  him. 

"By  God  —  trapped!"  he  said  softly. 

The  coach  door  was  opened  from  without  and  the  bitter 
night  mists  floated  in.  The  moon  was  shining  dimly;  Jerome 
Caryl  strode  to  the  door;  he  saw  a  vast  spread  of  fields  before 
him;  Hounslow  Heath. 

A  frosty  vapor  lay  over  everything;  now  and  then  the  moon 
was  hidden ;  a  cruel  iciness  was  in  the  air. 

Guarding  the  door  stood  the  two  Highland  servants,  im- 
movable, waiting  orders. 


THE  LOVE  OF  MARGARET  CAMPBELL   279 

Jerome  Caryl  looked  from  them  to  the  woman  behind  him. 

"Is  it  to  be  murder  ?"  he  asked  with  a  faint  smile. 

She  shuddered  violently. 

"Swear  on  the  most  sacred  thing  ye  know  that  ye  willna' 
gang  to  Kensington. " 

"The  alternative,  madam. " 

She  was  silent;  she  trembled  so  that  his  sword  jangled  under 
her  foot,  yet  she  held  herself  straight  and  there  was  no  flinch- 
ing in  her  eyes. 

He  answered  himself:   "It  is  obvious." 

He  glanced  at  the  three  silent  faces. 

"No  one  save  a  woman  would  have  tricked  my  sword  away 
—  give  it  back  to  me. " 

She  caught  her  breath  sharply. 

"No  —  there  must  be  no  fighting. " 

Jerome  Caryl's  eyes  narrowed:  "So  you  are  going  to  have 
me  butchered  —  like  a  dog. " 

She  called  out  in  Gaelic  to  the  Highlanders.  They  advanced 
to  the  coach  door;  a  wild  scorn  sprang  into  Jerome  Caryl's 
soft  face.  "Give  me  my  sword,"  he  said  fiercely.  "I  am  a 
gentleman." 

Lady  Breadalbane  made  no  answer;  she  never  lowered  her 
eyes  from  his  gaze;  nor  bent  her  head  nor  moved,  but  she 
could  not  speak. 

He  turned  to  the  coach  door  and  leaped  to  the  ground. 

A  fine  drizzle  of  rain  was  falling  and  the  grass  was  sodden 
beneath  his  feet;  the  coach  lamps  shone  on  the  two  steaming 
white  horses  and  showed  a  bare  branched  tree  that  grew  near- 
by; the  place  was  solitary,  silent,  ghostly.  Jerome  Caryl  looked 
round  him  and  his  blood  rose  strangely. 

He  turned  to  the  great  Highlander  who  blocked  his  path. 


280  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Let  me  pass. " 

For  answer  they  seized  him,  each  by  one  shoulder;  at  the 
feel  of  their  hands  on  him,  the  blood  rushed  to  his  face,  but  he 
held  himself  still. 

Lady  Breadalbane  came  to  the  door  of  the  coach  and  looked 
down  on  him. 

"Will  ye  swear  not  to  warn  the  Prince  ?"  she  shivered. 
"Then  ye  may  gang  awa'  a  free  man." 

His  beautiful  face  turned  to  her  unmoved.  "I  have  answered 

you." 

"Then  I  hav'na'  a  choice,"  she  moaned. 

Her  black  figure  was  outlined  against  the  light  interior  of 
the  coach  as  she  stood  with  a  hand  on  either  side  to  support 
herself,  her  eyes  were  very  resolute,  though  her  voice  fell  and 
broke. 

"I  met  you  in  the  inn,"  said  Jerome  looking  up. 
"And  I  had  seen  you  before  —  in  a  dream  —  I  might  have 
known." 

She  stared  at  him  dumbly;  the  rain  on  the  roof  of  the  coach 
made  a  light  sound. 

"Some  one  will  warn  the  Prince,"  continued  Jerome.  "I  am 
content  that  this  is  in  vain." 

She  lifted  her  hand  to  her  breast. 

"Take  him  away,"  she  said  in  Gaelic. 

She  saw  the  look  on  his  face;  she  saw  his  hands  clench,  look 
and  movement  passed  and  he  walked  off  quietly  between  the 
two  huge  figures  into  the  darkness. 

With  a  stifled  cry  she  sank  back  onto  the  seat  and  wrung 
her  hands. 

The  bitter  air  streamed  in  through  the  open  door  and  she 
saw  the  black  heath  and  the  lighter  sky  in  which  the  moon 


THE  LOVE  OF  MARGARET  CAMPBELL       281 

seemed  to  swing  and  dance  behind  the  clouds  like  a  lantern 
held  unsteadily. 

She  dragged  at  her  hair  with  a  curious  aimless  gesture  and 
crouched  far  into  the  corner,  hiding  her  face  in  the  cushions. 
From  the  darkness  no  sound  save  the  gentle  one  of  the  rain 
and  the  jingle  of  harness  as  one  of  the  horses  moved. 

Then  suddenly  footsteps,  and  in  the  open  door  one  of  her 
Highlanders  with  blood  on  his  face. 

"Ah  —  so  soon !  So  soon !" 

"He  has  a  knife  in  his  pocket  —  he  is  fighting  for  his  life 
like  a  devil. "  The  man  put  his  hand  to  his  bleeding  forehead. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked  in  a  quick  horror,  yet 
resolute  still. 

"Something  to  tie  his  hands  — " 

Her  fingers  go  to  her  cravat;  she  loosens  it  and  flings  it 
through  the  door ;  it  is  all  she  has  —  why  does  he  fight  —  she 
thought  he  was  unarmed,  she  wanted  this  to  be  swift  and 
sudden. 

The  Highlander  catches  the  twist  of  lace  and  is  gone. 

She  stands  there  staring  across  the  heath,  upright  in  the 
coach  door. 

All  her  senses  are  quickened;  she  fancies  that  she  can  see 
even  through  the  darkness,  one  man  struggling  with  two, 
defending  himself  with  a  clasp-knife  —  she  sees  them  slip  a 
lace  scarf  over  his  head,  tighten  it  round  his  throat  —  she  sees 
blood  —  scarlet  as  flame,  before  her  eyes  and  shakes  her 
hands  as  if  she  felt  it  running  from  them ;  then  she  looks  at  the 
peaceful,  tired,  white  horses  standing  with  drooping  heads  in 
the  circle  of  misty  lantern-light;  she  sees  the  patches  of  wet 
lying  on  the  clay  under  their  hoofs ;  the  bare  thorn-tree  behind 
them,  the  dim  hurrying  clouds  above  and  the  whole  scene  is 


THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

impressed  on  her  as  something  strange  and  terrible,  every 
little  detail  to  the  slender  line  of  the  whip  on  the  empty  coach- 
man's seat  stands  out  clearly,  never  to  be  forgotten  while  she 
shall  live. 

Up  out  of  the  black  mystery  of  the  heath  come  her  two 
Highlanders. 

"Is  it  done  —  is  —  sh !  —  done  ?" 

They  answer  her  that  it  is  done ;  they  are  in  no  way  moved ; 
they  have  been  sent  on  fiercer  deeds  even  than  this  in  the 
Highlands;  one  is  twisting  a  rag  round  his  hand. 

She  takes  up  the  sword  from  the  floor;  it  feels  strange  and 
heavy  in  her  hands. 

"Put  that  beside  him  —  drawn  —  as  if  he  died  fighting  — 
highwaymen  are  common  here." 

She  gives  it  to  them ;  then  picks  up  her  gray  fur  and  puts  it 
about  her  shoulders. 

"Empty  his  pockets,"  she  calls  after  them,  and  even  as  she 
speaks  she  looks  into  the  corner  of  the  coach  as  if  she  saw  him 
there,  staring  at  her. 

The  rain  ceases,  and  the  chill,  creeping  wind  blows  stronger, 
ruffles  her  hair  and  the  manes  of  the  white  horses. 

They  come  back,  her  silent  Highlanders;  they  lay  on  the 
floor  of  the  coach  the  contents  of  his  pockets;  some  money, 
not  much;  a  handkerchief,  a  watch  with  the  face  shivered;  a 
little  book  with  a  worn  blue  velvet  cover,  some  papers  tied 
with  a  ribbon. 

The  Highlanders,  having  done  their  duty,  mount  the  box. 

She  stares  at  these  things  on  the  floor,  picks  up  the  packet 
of  papers  and  opens  it;  a  long  lock  of  pale  hair  falls  out  and 
some  dust  that  might  have  been  a  pressed  flower. 

"Where  shall  I  drive,  Lady  Brcadalbane  ?" 


THE  LOVE  OF  MARGARET  CAMPBELL   283 

"To  Scotland  —  to  the  Highlands  —  to  Glencoe !  Glencoe !" 
She  flings  herself  back  on  the  seat  and  the  door  is  closed; 

over  her  hand  hangs  the  yellow  curl  and  the  winter  night  has 

fallen  in  chaos  about  her. 
"To  Glencoe!  Glencoe!" 


CHAPTER  XXV 
GLENCOE 

IT   was   midday  of   the   thirteenth   of   February   and 
the  snow  clouds  were  blowing  up  over  the  Valley  of 
Glencoe. 
The   whole   landscape,  encompassed  by   vast   and 
steep  mountains,  lay  in  a  cold,  leaden  gray  light,  there  was  no 
human  being  in  sight  and  the  only  living  thing  visible  was  the 
solitary  eagle  that  circled  in  and  out  of  the  fissures  in  the  hills. 
The  clouds  rested  like  a  girdle  round  the  mountains,  the  sides 
and  summits  of  which  showed  rifts  of  the  pure  melted  snow. 
There  were  many  entries  to  the  valley,  desolate  winding 
pathways  between  the  hills,  steep  avenues,  twisting  down  the 
rocks;  and  from  the  mouth  through  the  center  ran  a  flat  and 
silent  stream. 

There  was  no  sign  of  the  nearing  of  the  spring;  it  seemed  the 
very  depth  of  winter;  the  grass  and  trees  were  withered  to  a 
uniform  tint  of  grayness;  the  vastness  of  the  scene  made  it 
awful,  its  silence  made  it  melancholy  beyond  expression,  hu- 
manity appeared  to  have  no  place  in  this  loneliness;  the  cry 
of  the  eagle  echoed  like  a  dismal  warning  to  all  who  would 
intrude  on  his  desolate  domain  and  the  silence  seemed  the 
greater  as  his  scream  fell  to  stillness. 

Descending  into  the  valley  by  its  mouth  were  two  people: 
a  shepherd  wrapped  in  a  heavy  plaid  and  a  woman  on  a 
Highland  pony.  As  the  valley  closed  round  them,  she  raised 

284 


GLENCOE  285 

her  face  constantly  to  the  sky  and  the  mountain  tops  as  if 
their  rugged  splendor  pleased  her;  her  face  was  pale  and  of  a 
calm  nobility  in  the  expression ;  her  brown  eyes  held  an  intense 
look  and  her  curved  mouth  was  firmly  set;  her  gray  hood  and 
her  heavy,  dull  brown  hair  showed  off  the  pure  lines  of  her 
uplifted  square  chin  and  full  throat ;  she  took  little  heed  of  her 
companion,  a  tall  gloomy  Highlander  and  when  her  gaze  was 
not  on  the  stormy  sky  it  was  directed  down  the  desolate  Glen. 

Once  she  said: 

"What  a  place  to  dwell  —  this  wilderness !" 

And  he  answered  in  his  Gaelic : 

"The  Glen  o'  Weeping !  The  Glen  o'  Weeping !" 

As  they  advanced  farther  into  the  Glen,  a  few  scattered 
dull-colored  dwellings  became  visible,  mostly  situated  in 
the  windings  and  twistings  of  the  steep  sides,  and  as  they  drew 
yet  nearer  the  very  heart  of  the  valley  they  beheld,  spread 
before  them  twenty  or  thirty  rude  huts  gathered  in  some 
semblance  of  order  round  a  central  one  of  more  pretentious 
size. 

They  did  not  seem  the  habitations  of  human  beings,  but 
more  like  the  quarries  or  lairs  of  some  strange  wild  beasts; 
there  were  no  people  about,  but  from  some  of  the  roofs  a 
thin  curl  of  smoke  arose. 

The  girl  on  the  Highland  pony,  Delia  Featherstonehaugh, 
looked  long  at  the  cluster  of  huts  as  they  neared  them. 

"The  chief  of  the  Macdonalds  dwells  here  ?"  she  asked. 

He  nodded  taciturnly. 

They  came  slowly  over  the  worn  and  faded  heather  into 
the  center  of  the  little  colony,  then  Delia  slipped  from  her 
horse. 

"Makian's   house,"  said  the  Highlander,   pointing  to  the 


286  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

largest  dwelling,  and  she  followed  him  to  the  door,  leading 
her  tired  pony;  her  garments  were  blown  about  her  in  the 
wind  and  her  long  locks  escaped  and  flew  across  her  face; 
she  lifted  her  eyes  again  to  the  mountains  in  their  grand 
solitude  and  her  breast  rose  with  the  trembling  of  a  sigh. 

Her  guide  struck  on  the  door  and  instantly  it  was  opened; 
the  Highlander  turned  with  an  abrupt  gesture  to  the  woman, 
standing  without  in  the  gray. 

"A  Saxon  woman,  Macdonald,  with  a  message  for  you," 
he  said. 

An  old  man,  wrapped  in  a  plaid,  stood  in  the  doorway, 
he  stared  from  one  to  the  other  as  the  shepherd  continued: 
"She  met  your  son  Ronald  in  the  Lowlands,  and  he  bid  her 
come  to  me  if  ever  she  had  need  of  finding  him,  and  so  she 
came  with  news  of  disaster  to  you,  and  I  brought  her  thither." 

"Disaster  ?"  echoed  Makian. 

Delia  Featherstonehaugh  stepped  over  the  threshold. 
She  had  a  glimpse  of  a  warmly-lighted  interior  and  a  group 
of  men  playing  cards;  she  stood  silent  a  moment  with  her 
hand  on  the  door-post  and  Makian  stared  at  her. 

Then  she  spoke: 

"I  am  an  emissary  of  the  King,"  she  said;  she  laid  her 
hand  on  the  old  Highlander's  arm  and  her  eager  eyes  looked 
straightly  up  into  his.  "I  sent  you  —  and  all  the  clans  a 
warning  —  by  your  son,  you  remember,  Macdonald  ?" 

He  nodded,  the  men  round  the  fire  had  risen  and  were 
listening,  too;  her  voice  rose,  gaining  in  steadiness. 

"I  warned  you  to  take  the  oaths  to  the  government  — 
I  warned  you  that  the  Campbells  were  preparing  a  ven- 
geance — 

Makian  interrupted. 


GLENCOE  287 

"We  took  the  oaths  —  I  went  through  the  snows  to  In- 
verary  and  took  the  oaths." 

"Too  late!"  she  answered  bitterly.  "Too  late!  Too  long 
you  dallied  —  and  maybe  I  also  arn  too  late !" 

Again  he  interposed. 

"But  we  are  under  the  government's  protection  —  I  was 
assured  of  that. " 

She  came  a  step  forward  and  her  glance  took  in  the  men 
assembled  against  the  background  of  thick  peat  smoke; 
in  her  gray  garments,  falling  straight  from  shoulders  to  feet 
with  her  eager,  colorless  face,  she  looked  like  some  embodi- 
ment of  the  mists  from  the  mountains  that  had  drifted  through 
their  doors;  they  moved  a  little  away  from  her  as  if  they 
were  in  an  awe  of  her  person  that  overweighed  any  anxiety 
that  they  might  have  felt  as  to  her  message;  she  saw  this 
and  trembled  in  her  desire  to  convince  them  of  the  terrible 
import  of  her  warning;  she  recalled  to  them  the  hatred  of  the 
Campbells;  she  spoke  of  what  she  knew  of  the  policy  of  the 
government;  of  how  their  submission  had  been  suppressed. 
She  said  Breadalbane  was  at  Kilchurn  arming  his  clan, 
that  Argyll  was  holding  Inverness,  that  soldiers  were  quarter- 
ed in  Argyllshire  and  were  marching  even  now  from  Fort 
William;  she  related  her  own  wild  journey,  the  difficulties, 
the  perils,  how  she  had  come  from  England,  hastening,  never 
stopping,  that  she  might  warn  them  of  the  doom  preparing; 
that  she  might  arrest  a  bloody  execution,  and  her  eyes  went 
to  the  figure  of  Ronald  Macdonald,  who  leaned  quietly  against 
the  rude  wall  close  to  her. 

When  the  tide  of  her  words  had  come  to  an  end  she  stood 
with  panting  bosom  and  dilated  eyes,  waiting. 

While  she  spoke  the    ircle  of  her  audience  had  grown;  men, 


288  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

women  and  children,  they  were  gathered  round  the  hut 
door,  while  within  stood  the  old  chief  and  his  family  with 
somber  faces.  But  there  was  silence  and  no  movement  from 
any  of  them.  The  girl  turned  to  Ronald  with  a  strange  smile. 

"You  know  me,  Ronald  Macdonald  ?  —  you  think  that  I 
speak  the  truth  ?" 

He  answered  slowly: 

"I  know  you  and  I  believe." 

His  father  cried  out,  struck  through  his  apathy  at  last: 

"The  Campbells  march  from  Fort  William  ?" 

"Ay,  I  saw  them  on  the  road  —  I  slipped  past  them  be- 
cause my  guide  knew  the  shorter,  hidden  ways. " 

A  sound  like  a  faint  wail  arose  from  the  gathered  crowd; 
a  portentous  sense  of  evil,  not  to  be  measured  either  by  exact 
statement  or  loose  phrasing,  possessed  them;  they  all  turned 
their  eyes  to  the  Saxon  woman  in  their  midst  and  she  in  her 
turn  gazed  on  the  one  indifferent  face  among  them,  the  face 
of  the  young  man  Ronald,  for  the  memory  of  whom  she  had 
kept  her  vow  to  save  him. 

"We  may  fly  through  Strath  Tay,"  said  one. 

Delia  shook  her  head. 

"The  laird  of  Weem  has  been  secured  by  the  government  — 
ye  are  surrounded  —  every  avenue  of  the  Glen  is  —  I  think, 
closed.  I  have  done  little  —  only  ye  cannot  be  murdered 
unwitting  in  your  sleep." 

"They  come  for  that  —  these  Campbells?"  demanded 
Ronald  sullenly.  "To  slay  us  in  our  sleep  ?" 

"They  come  with  full  power  of  sword  and  fire,"  she  an- 
swered. 

She  rested  her  weary  head  against  the  lintel  of  the  door  and 
again  a  curious  smile  moved  her  lips;  she  thought  of  the 


GLENCOE  289 

last  time  she  had  seen  him  and  the  present  gray  scene,  the 
surrounding  figures,  the  loud  cursing  of  the  Campbell  name, 
the  shrill  talk  of  women,  fell  away  from  her.  She  recalled  the 
little  house  in  Glasgow  and  the  coming  of  the  Highlander,  and 
Perseus,  busy  writing,  plotting,  coming  to  and  fro,  the  even 
round  of  the  days,  excitement  and  the  great  hope  ahead, 
the  beacon  to  lead  them  on,  recalled  all  this  with  curiosity 
and  no  regret  even  as  she  pictured  the  dead  brother  whom  she 
had  loved;  once  waiting  idly  in  some  great  house,  she  had 
noticed  pictures  on  the  walls,  a  carnival  on  the  ice,  a  fruit 
shop,  a  lady  with  a  fan,  she  could  remember  them  now,  every 
detail,  and  as  impersonal  as  these  did  she  see  her  life  of  a 
few  months  ago,  quiet,  pleasant  pictures,  rising  in  succession, 
till  suddenly  they  were  shattered  into  darkness  and  one  rose 
that  blotted  them  out,  one  figure,  one  face. 

In  her  recital  she  had  not  named  the  Master  of  Stair; 
she  had  blamed  Breadalbane,  the  Campbells,  the  govern- 
ment, but  she  had  not  named  the  name  of  the  man  whom  she 
knew  to  be  behind  it  all;  she  had  not  hinted  that  the  hand  of 
the  Master  of  Stair  was  guiding  Breadalbane,  all  of  them, 
that  his  will  and  his  power  were  behind  the  redcoats  march- 
ing for  Glencoe. 

They  brought  her  to  the  fire  and  made  her  lay  aside  her 
cloak  and  warm  her  cold  hands;  and  showed  her  rough 
hospitality.  She  obeyed  silently  and  sat  down  meekly  in  the 
heavy  peat  reek  with  a  lassitude  not  to  be  explained;  as  if 
there  were  no  momentous  hour  at  hand,  as  if  her  life  ran 
smoothly  ahead,  as  if  there  were  no  white  faces  and  eager 
voices  about  her,  as  if  no  army  was  marching  nearer,  with  the 
slow  fading  of  the  light,  nearer. 

One  of  the  women  brought  her  some  milk,  and  came  and 


290  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

kissed  her  hand  and  blessed  her;  she  took  no  notice  of  either; 
she  was  picturing  a  finely-dressed  lady,  who  held  out  a  minia- 
ture from  the  end  of  a  mauve  ribbon. 

"My  children." 

She  heard  the  words  again  and  saw  the  action,  but  again 
the  thrill  of  exquisite  anguish  with  which  her  own  words 
had  come: 

"How  like!  — how  like!" 

So  he  had  looked  when  he  had  bargained  with  her;  when 
he  had  given  her  his  word  for  the  safety  of  her  friends;  so, 
too,  had  he  looked  when  he  had  betrayed  them,  only  perhaps 
then  he  had  smiled,  he  had  contemplated  her  hanged  or  be- 
headed and  most  probably  had  smiled;  he  had  thought  of 
her  utter  folly  and  lifted  his  shoulders  in  contempt;  and  she, 
the  woman  who  had  the  picture  of  his  children  hanging 
round  her  neck,  perhaps  he  had  told  her  something  and  she 
had  also  smiled  —  or  pitied. 

These  thoughts  had  been  her  companions  during  her  jour- 
ney; they  would  not  be  shaken  off  now.  As  ghosts  they  grinned 
through  the  peat  smoke.  Unbearable,  they  became  at  last ; 
she  went  to  the  door  and  watched  the  clan  assemble. 

Over  everything  was  that  sense  of  fear  aroused,  of  wrath 
held  in  leash,  before  every  one  was  that  picture  of  the  passes 
filling  silently  with  red-coated  Campbells ;  of  strangely-armed 
soldiers  coming  from  Fort  William,  steadily,  with  bloody 
purpose,  still  nearer;  in  every  mind  was  there  thought  of  Jock 
Campbell  of  Breadalbane,  wronged,  insulted,  moving  at 
last  from  his  quiet  with  a  terrible  revenge.  To  all  the  little 
glens  and  colonies  messengers  went  out;  Sandy  and  Ian 
Macdonald  dragged  out  ancient  guns  with  watchful  eyes  up 
the  pass,  Makian  gave  commands  calmly,  women  looked  on 


GLENCOE  291 

grimly  and  put  their  children  behind  them;  over  every- 
thing that  sense  of  oppression  of  disaster  gathering  in 
silence;  before  all  that  vision  of  the  Cambpells  coming 
steadily. 

One  man  alone  stood  apart,  Ronald  Macdonald  wrapped 
in  his  plaid,  indifferent  against  the  open  door. 

The  gray  day  was  growing  grayer;  up  from  rifts  and  hidden 
valleys  in  the  hills  came  the  tacksmen  of  Macdonald;  con- 
tained, silent,  in  a  moment  comprehending,  in  a  moment 
seeing  that  picture  of  the  Campbells,  of  Strath  Tay  held,  of 
Breadalbane  rising  in  Invernesshire,  of  Argyll  rising  in  Argyl- 
shire,  of  themselves  surrounded,  trapped,  sport  for  the  enemy 
food  for  his  sword.  Small  they  appeared  beneath  the  vastness 
of  the  hills,  the  wild  splendor  of  the  tossing  clouds,  the  wide 
spread  of  the  sky,  not  more  than  seventy  men,  all  told,  and 
Delia's  heart  cried  out  within  her. 

As  the  daylight  faded  it  grew  colder;  so  cold  that  the 
children  were  taken  back  into  the  huts;  a  few  flakes  of  snow 
fell  across  the  grayness  of  the  sky  and  drifted  lightly  onto  the 
shoulders  of  the  men. 

Would  they  wait  till  it  was  dark  ?  Would  they  come  to- 
night ? 

The  question  went  from  mouth  to  mouth;  Makian  bitter- 
ly cursed  the  government  that  had  so  foully  deceived  him ; 
he  spoke  of  the  assurances  the  sheriff  had  given  him  that 
they  were  safe.  And  Delia  thought  of  the  suppressed  oath 
and  her  cheeks  went  hot  with  shame;  they  misplaced  their 
curses;  one  and  only  one  deserved  them,  but  she  could  not 
speak  his  name. 

They  were  gathered  together  to  leave  the  valley,  packing 
their  few  poor  goods,  calling  up  their  herds,  then*  ponies  — 


292  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

there  must  be  some  outlet  to  the  Glen  unguarded,  unknown 
to  any. 

They  said  very  little;  dread  and  fear  were  among  them  as 
a  living  devil,  clutching  the  throat  of  each;  only  the  little 
children  wailed,  miserably,  because  of  the  cruel  cold  and  the 
strangeness  of  this  desertion  of  the  fireside  for  the  chill  heather. 

Delia  turned  to  Ronald  who  gave  no  sign. 

"You  do  not  come  ?"  she  said ;  she  noticed  that  he  was  pale, 
haggard  and  preoccupied ;  he  lifted  wild  eyes  to  hers. 

"Her  husband  will  be  among  them  —  I  gave  him  his  life 
once  —  I  shall  not  touch  him  now  —  I  will  not  fight  the  clan 
that  holds  Margaret  Campbell,  though  she  spurn  me  for  a 
coward. " 

Then  he  added  simply:  "I  shall  be  very  glad  to  die." 

His  carelessness  threw  about  him  a  grandeur,  lifting  him 
above  the  others,  each  one  eager  for  his  own  life;  Delia  looked 
at  him  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  folded  arms. 

"I  too,"  she  said  quietly,  "better  to  be  dead  than  to  be  — 
alone.  And  I  have  no  purpose  in  life. " 

The  long  line  of  ponies  had  come  up;  the  bundles 
were  strapped  on  them;  the  Macdonalds  were  moving  to 
and  fro. 

Then  it  happened  Delia  dropped  her  hand  from  Ronald's 
arm  and  cried  out: 

"The  soldiers!" 

They  had  come  at  a  full  gallop  round  a  turn  in  the  Glen ;  at 
a  full  gallop  they  came  over  the  heather  and  at  a  shout  from 
their  leader  drew  up  a  few  paces  off. 

As  suddenly  as  the  falling  snow  or  the  rain  will  cover  the 
ground,  so  suddenly  had  these  soldiers  appeared  and  spread 
themselves  across  the  Glen  before  the  Macdonalds  could  fly 


GLENCOE  293 

or  scream  or  warn  each  other;  before  they  could  do  anything 
save  realize  their  peril. 

The  leader  of  the  redcoats  was  almost  in  their  midst,  in 
the  security  of  his  steel  cuirass  he  defied  them;  he  was  a  large 
red  man  with  a  freckled  face  showing  under  his  black  beaver; 
his  horse  was  panting  with  the  speed  of  his  gallop,  he  patted 
her  neck  carelessly,  while  he  spoke: 

"Macdonald !  surrender,  in  the  name  of  the  King  —  " 
he  swept  his  glance  over  the  confused  array;  he  noted  the 
preparations  for  flight. 

"So  ye  have  been  warned  of  my  coming!"  he  said  and 
laughed. 

Across  the  Glen  spread  the  soldiers,  cavalry  and  foot ;  the 
last  light  gleamed  in  their  steel  collars  and  muskets;  Makian, 
at  the  head  of  his  people,  looked  sternly  at  the  leader  who 
swept  off  his  hat  with  another  laugh;  his  red  hair  was  blown 
back  from  his  face  and  his  light  eyes  gleamed  as  he  spoke 
for  the  third  time:  "Ye  know  me,  Macdonald  ?" 

"Ay,"  answered  Makian  in  an  impassive  voice.  "I  know 
you,  Robert  Campbell  of  Glenlyon.  I  know  not  your  errand." 

Captain  Campbell  lifted  a  gauntleted  hand  against  the 
darkening  sky,  beckoning  his  men  nearer. 

"I  come  to  root  out  your  cursed  den  of  thieves,"  he  said. 
"By  the  command  of  Scotland  and  the  King." 

"Ye  lying  Campbell!"  cried  Makian.  "We  are  under  the 
protection  of  the  King !  I  took  the  oath. " 

"Too  late,"  smiled  Glenlyon.  "Ye  are  approved  traitors 
and  rebels,  therefore  surrender." 

At  this  Delia  Featherstonehaugh  came  from  the  side  of 
Ronald  and  crossed  the  wet  heather  between  the  Campbells 
and  Macdonald  till  she  came  to  Glenlyon's  saddle  bow. 


294  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Captain  Campbell,"  she  said. 

He  looked  down  at  her  in  a  quick  surprise. 

"Take  care,"  said  Delia.  "I  know  —  I  know  that  the  sub- 
mission of  these  people  has  been  suppressed.  Glenlyon  frown- 
ed, and  his  eyes  were  curiously  intent  on  her. 

"Who  are  you,  mistress  ?"  he  asked. 

"Does  it  matter?"  Her  words  came  quickly,  she  put  her 
hand  on  his  rein ;  both  soldiers  and  Highlanders  watched  her 
in  silence.  "What  authority  have  you  ?  Take  care  how  ye 
satisfy  a  private  feud  under  cover  of  the  law. " 

"I  obey  my  commands,"  answered  Glenlyon,  still  gazing 
at  her,  "I  have  the  letter  here,"  he  touched  his  breast.  "Higher 
than  I,  mistress,  must  answer  for  this  day's  work;  Hill,  Hamil- 
ton, Breadalbane  and  the  Master  of  Stair. " 

He  smiled  at  her  slow  look  of  horror. 

"What  are  the  Macdonalds  to  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  came  from  London  to  warn  them,"  said  Delia  in  a 
vague  manner.  "But  surely  it  is  in  vain  —  what  are  you 
going  to  do  ?" 

"My  orders  are  to  slay  every  Macdonald  under  seventy  — 
and  pay  particular  attention  to  the  old  fox  and  his  cubs." 

"My  God !  oh,  my  God  I"  she  slipped  to  her  knees  and  clung 
to  his  stirrup  in  a  distracted  manner,  with  her  wild  eyes 
staring  fixedly;  she  made  no  appeal  beyond  that  cry  and  the 
agony  of  her  glance;  she  knelt  there  ready  for  his  horse  to 
trample  her  to  death. 

Glenlyon  stooped  from  the  saddle  and  loosened  her 
hands  gently;  then  he  beckoned  to  one  of  his  soldiers. 

"Take  her  away,"  he  said  with  a  flushed  face.  "Take  care 
of  her,"  and  as  the  man  lifted  Delia  from  the  ground,  his 
gray  eyes  dwelt  on  her  face  in  a  troubled  manner. 


GLENCOE  295 

She  made  no  resistance  as  the  man  led  her  away,  and 
Glenlyon  turned  fiercely  to  the  Macdonalds.  "Lay  down 
yours  arms  and  surrender,"  he  commanded.  "I'll  not  wait 
much  longer." 

They  had  watched  his  parley  with  the  girl  in  silence, 
knowing  well  that  there  was  no  escape  for  them ;  that  on  their 
first  movement  the  soldiers  would  fire;  so  they  stood,  gathered 
together  with  somber  faces,  fronting  the  Campbells.  The  snow 
was  falling  faster;  the  great  clouds  had  almost  obscured  the 
mountains. 

Glenlyon  drew  out  his  watch. 

"Hamilton  said  five,"  he  muttered. 

It  was  now  five  minutes  past;  he  glanced  over  his  men; 
the  Argyllshire  regiment,  all  Campbells,  then  repeated  his 
commands  to  the  Macdonalds  to  surrender. 

Makian  refused  and  a  full  murmur  of  scorn  went  up  from 
the  Macdonalds. 

"Then  I  shall  fall  on  ye  without  mercy  —  men,  women  and 
children,"  said  Glenlyon. 

There  was  no  sound  from  the  Macdonalds  save  the  faint 
wail  of  a  frightened  child;  the  chief  stood  in  front  of  them, 
his  sons  beside  him.  Ronald  was  not  there. 

"Fire!"  cried  Glenlyon. 

The  volley  of  musketry  echoed  down  the  Glen;  a  savage 
cry  of  triumph  broke  from  the  Campbells,  as,  flinging  their 
guns  aside  and  drawing  their  swords,  they  dashed  on  the 
Macdonalds. 

Delia  Featherstonehaugh  saw  the  world  about  her  struck 
with  strange  confusion ;  she  slipped  from  the  soldier  who  held 
her  and  ran  blindly  down  the  Glen  through  the  smoke. 

The  report  of  the  guns  echoed  from  the  mountains,  rang 


296  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

in  her  ears;  she  saw  smoke  curling  from  the  huts  and  one 
burst  suddenly  into  a  bright  flame  that  rose  heavenwards. 

She  heard  the  guns  discharge  again  and  a  distant  answer 
to  them  float  from  the  hills;  horsemen  flew  past  her;  one  fell 
and  his  companion  leaped  over  man  and  animal  and  was  gone 
into  the  smoke;  screams  rose  and  thick  cries  of  triumph  and 
hate;  figures  formed  out  of  the  smoke  and  were  lost  again; 
a  second  time  came  the  roll  of  musketry  from  the  hills, 
nearer  now.  Delia  found  herself  leaning  against  the  rocky  side 
of  the  valley,  watching,  listening,  dumb  —  not  blind.  A 
shrieking  boy  rushed  past  her,  two  soldiers  after  him;  one  had 
a  bleeding  face. 

From  the  burning  hut  a  woman  came  running,  alight  from 
head  to  foot;  there  was  no  outcry;  she  flung  up  her  hands 
above  her  blazing  hair  and  fell  forward  on  her  face. 

The  musketry  cracked  again;  a  horseman  galloped  by 
with  a  Highlander  clinging  to  the  saddle;  they  were  striking 
at  each  other  with  knives ;  the  Macdonald  dragged  the  Camp- 
bell from  the  saddle  and  the  maddened  horse  plunged  over 
both. 

It  was  almost  dark;  Delia  stumbled  forward  from  her  place 
and  ran  along  the  rocks,  crying  to  herself. 

She  came  into  a  circle  of  light  cast  by  the  burning  dwelling 
and  stopped,  moaning. 

A  rider  swept  up,  cried  out  at  sight  of  her  and  flung 
himself  from  the  saddle.  She  felt  him  seize  her  and  drag 
her  away. 

"Ye  will  be  slain,"  he  kept  saying  and  he  hurried  her  from 
the  shrieking  confusion  into  the  dark  of  the  cold  rocks  and  wet 
heather;  once  her  companion  put  his  arms  about  her  and 
lifted  her  over  a  fallen  man.  He  held  her  close  against  his 


GLENCOE  297 

breast  a  moment ;  the  musketry  still  cracked  in  their  ears  and 
the  snow  was  falling  over  them. 

Delia  struggled  away  to  stare  into  her  rescuer's  face. 

It  was  Glenlyon. 

He  had  her  firmly  by  the  arm. 

"Ye must  come  into  safety, "he  said  hoarsely, and  he  drew 
her  along,  supporting  her  over  the  rough  way;  her  cloak 
had  fallen  and  he  put  it  about  her. 

At  that  she  spoke. 

"Why  are  ye  so  careful  of  me,  Robert  Campbell  ?  There 
are  women  dying  down  there. "  She  pointed  to  the  dip  of  the 
valley  they  were  leaving  where  the  red  light  and  the  smoke 
rose  through  the  darkness. 

"It  is  over  now,"  he  answered  in  a  troubled  manner. 
"We  killed  no  women  if  we  could  help  it  —  Hamilton  is 
coming  —  I  must  get  ye  into  his  camp. " 

"There  are  others  will  die  of  cold  this  night  —  let  me  join 
them,  Robert  Campbell!" 

But  he  held  her  firmly.  "Who  have  ye  among  the  Mac- 
donalds  ? "  he  asked  quickly. 

"Robert  Campbell  —  let  me  go !" 

Through  the  dark  his  voice  came  strained  and  labored. 

"I  cannot  —  ye  will  be  hurt  —  let  me  be  with  ye  —  ye 
can  command  me." 

She  gave  her  arm  such  a  sudden  wrench  that  his  grasp 
was  slackened  for  a  second  and  in  that  second  she  had 
freed  herself  and  was  running  back  through  the  darkness 
toward  the  deadly  circle  of  light. 

As  she  reached  the  first  hut  the  red  glare  that  lit  the  way 
showed  things  that  made  her  blood  run  cold. 

The  soldiers  had  left  their  work  to  pursue  those  that 


298  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

had  fled  into  the  mountains;  Hamilton  was  late;  it  had  been 
bungled;  some  of  the  avenues  from  the  Glen  were  left  un- 
guarded and  so  many  of  the  Macdonalds  had  escaped. 

She  hurried  on  through  smoking  ruins  and  sinking  fires; 
to  right  and  left  lay  the  dead,  frozen  in  their  blood;  stained 
and  torn  plaids  were  scattered  over  the  heather;  here  and 
there  a  musket  was  flung  down  or  a  dirk,,  or  a  household 
implement  hastily  snatched  up  and  cast  aside. 

The  flames  of  the  burning  huts  were  sinking  under  the 
snow;  the  cold  numbed  Delia's  very  senses,  horror  and  dread 
were  frozen  into  apathy;  the  icy  air,  the  bitter  soft  snowflakes 
chilled  the  heat  of  wrath  and  terror  in  her  blood. 

She  came  through  the  dismantled  dwellings  to  Makian's 
house;  it  still  stood;  the  door  was  broken  off  and  a  man  with 
his  plaid  over  his  face  lay  across  the  threshold;  by  his  white 
beard,  blood-stained  and  trodden  into  the  mire,  she  knew  it 
for  the  old  chief. 

She  crept  past  him  and  into  his  ruined  home;  the  peat  fire 
still  flickered  upon  the  hearth;  the  place  was  warm  despite 
the  wind  that  whined  through  the  torn  door. 

In  the  very  center  of  the  room  a  man  lay  on  his  back  with 
his  hands  outspread. 

Delia  stole  to  the  fire  and  stirred  it  into  flame,  casting  on 
peat  from  the  pile  beside  her;  then,  as  the  light  leaped  up  she 
turned  to  the  prostrate  man  and  saw  that  he  was  Ronald 
Macdonald ;  she  went  on  her  knees  in  silence  and  lifted  his 
head  onto  her  lap;  he  made  a  little  movement  and  put  his 
hand  over  his  breast;  she  saw  that  his  coat  was  torn  and 
stained  and  that  the  sluggish  blood  was  dripping  from  a  cut 
in  his  forehead.  With  a  shudder  she  looked  about  her,  called 
aloud  till  she  grew  frightened  of  her  own  echoing  voice  and 


GLENCOE  299 

was  silent  for  very  horror.  Half -mechanically  she  tore  off  the 
cambric  ruffles  from  her  sleeves  and  then  gently  laying  him 
back  upon  the  floor,  crept  to  the  door.  In  a  little  hollow  of 
the  rocks  she  saw  the  snow  had  collected ;  hither  she  carried  an 
earthenware  pot  and  filled  it  and  brought  it  back  and  set  it 
on  the  fire  and  waited  its  melting  with  a  silent,  wild  face  and 
busy  fingers  tearing  her  ruffles  into  strips. 

She  searched  the  hut  for  wine,  but  there  was  none;  broken, 
empty  bottles  lay  among  the  fallen  cards. 

As  best  she  could  she  washed  his  wounds  and  bound  them 
up,  made  her  cloak  into  a  pillow  for  him  and  edged  him  a  little 
nearer  the  fire. 

Then  she  fell  into  sick  weeping,  shuddering  tears  as  she 
wiped  the  blood  from  her  fingers. 

He  moved  again  and  spoke : 

"Have  they  gone  ?" 

She  caught  the  whisper  and  bent  over  him. 

"Yes." 

He  moaned  faintly. 

"I  am  so  cold  —  and  sick  —  lift  me  up  a  little. " 

She  took  his  head  onto  her  lap  again;  his  eyes,  a  ghastly, 
icy  blue  in  his  white  face,  fluttered  open. 

"Have  any  escaped  ?"  he  whispered. 

"God  knows  —  Macdonald." 

So  cold  it  was,  so  cold,  and  she  so  helpless;  she  cast  more 
peat  on  the  fire  and  prayed  that  some  one  might  come;  that 
some  one,  in  this  valley  of  the  dead,  might  be  living  and 
come. 

Through  the  long,  bitter  night  she  knelt  so,  holding  him, 
till  her  limbs  were  stiff  with  his  weight;  he  spoke  no  word, 
only  his  struggling  breath  showed  that  he  lived. 


300  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

With  the  first  breaking  of  the  pale  gray  dawn,  he  turned 
his  head  toward  the  open  door. 

"I  hear  horses,"  he  said. 

Delia  started  from  a  half-swoon. 

"I  hear  none,"  she  answered. 

"They  come,"  he  whispered.  "I  am  dying  so  slowly  — 

"God  knows,"  she  said  wildly. 

Another  silence  as  a  faint  light  filled  the  room  and  the 
winter  dawn  spread  above  the  mountains;  then  he  spoke: 

"When  I  am  dead  —  take  my  pouch,"  he  said  through 
labored  breaths.  "It  holds  —  Dundee's  spy-glass  —  I  want 
ye  to  have  it  —  for  staying  by  me  now  —  " 

She  cried  out  in  a  passionate  pity. 

"I  would  not  have  left  a  dog,  Macdonald !" 

"So  cold,"  he  whispered.  "The  world  is  freezing  into  death 
—  I  see  the  mountains  changing  into  snow  and  falling  —  I 
feel  the  earth  dissolve  into  an  icy  sky  and  all  my  life  ebb  from 
me  —  so  cold  —  hark !  —  the  horses !" 

Delia  could  hear  them  now. 

"Why,  there  is  hope,"  she  cried,  "some  help  is  here." 

Even  while  she  uttered  the  words  the  entrance  was 
darkened  by  the  approaching  horsemen.  Now  some  one 
had  slipped  from  the  saddle  and  was  standing  on  the 
threshold. 

The  dying  man  shuddered  in  Delia's  arms.  "Margaret 
Campbell!"  he  murmured. 

Lady  Breadalbane  turned  sharply  to  him. 

"So  one  Macdonald  lives !"  she  said,  and  shivered  through 
her  heavy  furs. 

"Have  ye  brought  forty  Campbells  to  murder  him!" 
shrieked  Delia. 


GLENCOE  301 

Lady  Breadalbane  looked  in  keen  curiosity  at  the  haggard 
woman  who  held  the  Macdonald's  head. 

"Do  not  use  that  word!"  she  cried.  "We  are  innocent  of 
this  night's  work  —  innocent,  I  say !  Who  are  you  to  look  so 
at  me?" 

"Why  have  ye  come  ?"  asked  Delia  bitterly. 

For  answer  the  Countess  swept  across  the  room,  dropped 
on  her  knees  beside  Ronald  and  took  his  hand. 

"I  came, "  she  said  in  an  eager  tone,  "to  find  if  any  lived  — 
to  find  you  —  Ronald  —  we  are  innocent,  you  understand 
—  innocent!" 

He  was  gazing  up  into  her  lovely  face  with  a  passion 
even  the  chill  of  death  could  not  quench  utterly. 

"What  do  you  want  —  Margaret  Campbell !" 

She  snatched  a  paper  from  her  bosom  and  held  it  with 
a  trembling  hand  out  to  him. 

"Put  your  mark  to  this,"  she  answered  hoarsely,  "to  prove 
ye  believe  that  my  lord  is  guiltless  of  this  —  " 

"Ah!"  burst  out  Delia,  "is  not  Glenlyon  your  husband's 
man  ?" 

"Silence!"  commanded  the  Countess.  "I  speak  to  him  —  " 

"What  has  he  to  gain  from  you  that  his  last  act  should  be  to 
testify  to  a  lie  ?" 

"It  is  no  lie  —  this  is  government  work  not  ours !" 

Delia  raised  flashing  eyes. 

"Then  if  Breadalbane  is  innocent  —  wherefore  do  ye 
trouble  ?"  she  cried. 

"That  he  may  prove  to  all  the  world  the  Macdonalds 
hold  him  guiltless  —  Ronald  —  will  ye  put  your  mark. " 

"No,"  said  Delia.  "She  asks  too  much  —  by  Heaven,  too 
much!" 


302  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Ronald  —  I  will  kiss  thee,"  breathed  the  Countess. 
"I  will  put  my  arms  about  thee  —  hold  thee  even  as  she  does 
—  to  my  bosom  —  so  thou  mark'st  this. " 

He  turned  from  Delia  toward  her. 

"Breadalbane  is  blood-guilty  to  the  soul,"  he  gasped.  "Yet 
kiss  me  —  and  I  will  sign  —  thy  lie. " 

She  took  a  pen  and  inkhorn  from  her  pocket,  dipped  the 
pen  and  put  it  between  his  slack  fingers  —  while  Delia 
tried  to  force  her  back. 

"Ye  shall  not  do  it !"  she  cried  desperately  to  Ronald. 

But  he  took  no  heed  of  her. 

"Kiss  me  —   "  he  murmured,  "Margaret !  Margaret !" 

She  caught  hold  of  him,  thrusting  Delia  aside.  "Margaret!" 

"Sign!"  shrieked  the  Countess  at  sight  of  his  face,  but  he 
rolled  out  of  her  arms  between  them. 

"Ye  are  too  late !"  cried  Delia,  springing  up. 

Lady  Breadalbane  gave  one  look  at  his  dead  face,  then 
rose  also. 

"Well,  we  do  not  care,  Jock  and  I,"  she  said  in  a  quiet 
fury.  "I  think  there  are  no  Macdonalds  left  to  harry  us  —  and 
we  can  face  the  world. " 

She  turned  to  the  doorway  and  beckoned  the  man  who 
stood  there. 

"The  man  is  dead,"  she  said,  flinging  back  her  red  hair. 
"And  he  has  not  given  testimony,  Glenlyon." 

"No,  thank  God,  thank  God !"  sobbed  Delia  wildly. 

Glenlyon  looked  from  one  to  another. 

"My  lord  must  bear  his  own  deeds,"  he  said  slowly. 

The  Countess's  green  eyes  blazed. 

"This  deed  is  not  his,"  she  cried.  "But  thine,  Robert 
Campbell!" 


GLENCOE  303 

"Do  you  deny  me,  then  ?"  he  answered  heavily. 

"Ay  —  thee  and  they  works  —  never  look  to  my  lord  to 
share  the  burden  of  the  blood  that  ye  have  shed  to-night!" 

"So  —  ye  cast  me  off  ?"  asked  Glenlyon  thickly. 

She  laughed  magnificently. 

"If  you  say  that  my  lord  bid  you  do  what  you  have  done  — 
why  then  we  do  —  cast  you  off,  Glenlyon. " 

"There  are  others  know  the  truth." 

It  was  Delia  spoke. 

Lady  Breadalbane  glanced  at  her  fiercely. 

"You  ?"  she  said. 

"I  —  and  Jerome  Caryl." 

The  Countess  fell  back  before  the  name  and  clutched 
at  the  lintel  of  the  door;  then  recovered  herself  and  laughed 
aloud. 

"He  is  dead  — your  Caryl." 

Delia  shrieked. 

"Dead!" 

"Who  was  he  that  he  should  not  die  ?" 

"Dead!" 

"Have  I  not  said  so  ?" 

"How  died  he  ?" 

Lady  Breadalbane  put  her  hand  to  her  bosom  and  drew 
herself  to  her  full  height. 

"Put  the  deed  down  to  those  who  did  this  work  about  you  — 
there  are  those  who  did  not  care  to  see  him  go  free  from 
Kensington. " 

"He  was  —  murdered  ?" 

"He  was  found  dead. " 

"Jerome  dead !  By  whose  orders  ?"  Delia's  tone  had  dropped 
to  dullness.  She  seemed  to  be  re-acting  some  old  and  ghostly 


304  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

dream ;  she  had  said  such  words  before  —  and  now  the  answer 
came  the  same. 

"The  Master  of  Stair,"  said  the  Countess,  looking  her  full 
in  the  face.  "They  found  him  dead  on  Hounslow  Heath 
which  was  the  more  likely  —  highwaymen  or  the  Master  of 
Stair?" 

"Ye  think  that  by  his  orders  Jerome  Caryl  was  slain  ?" 

"I  leave  it  to  ye,"  answered  the  Countess  and  with  a  fierce 
abruptness  she  was  gone. 

They  heard  the  thunder  of  her  escort  down  the  Glen  as 
the  Campbells  swept  away. 

Delia  came  forward  with  clenched  hands. 

"Three,"  she  said  in  a  choked  voice,  staring  down  at 
Ronald.  "God  bear  witness  that  it  is  three  that  he  has  taken 
from  me  —  three  men  wantonly  slain. " 

She  put  her  hand  over  her  distorted  face  and  swung 
round  toward  Glenlyon. 

"Why  have  ye  stayed  ?"  she  asked. 

He  came  slowly  near  to  her,  looking  at  her  strangely. 
"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  he  asked. 

"Live.  Live  to  —  "  she  dropped  her  hand  from  her  face 
and  pressed  it  to  her  bosom.  "I  am  going  —  to  make  a  man 
pay  the  price  of  the  blood  he  has  shed  —  to  pay  the  price. " 

"What  is  your  name  ?"  asked  Glenlyon. 

"Delia,"  she  said  indifferently,  and  she  moved  toward 
the  door;  the  cold  light  was  full  on  her  pale  face  and  her  long 
fallen  hair  dark  over  her  shoulders. 

Glenlyon  followed,  his  sword  clanking  on  the  floor. 

"Come  with  me. " 

His  voice  came  unsteadily.  "You  may  command  me,"  he 
said. 


GLENCOE  305 

As  if  she  suddenly  realized  him,  Delia  lifted  her  head; 
he  flushed  under  his  tan,  and  in  a  troubled  way  took  off  his 
beaver.  "Give  me  — your  hand  —  if  I  might." 

The  brown  eyes  considered  him:  "Robert  Campbell  — 
what  do  ye  mean  ?"  she  asked  wildly.  "I  have  my  life's  work 
—  I  have  told  you  —  " 

"Will  you  come  with  me  ?"  he  asked  again.  "Will  you  — 
trust  me  ?" 

Delia's  glance  fell  to  the  dead  man;  then  she  looked 
away  down  the  valley:  slowly  back  at  Glenlyon. 

"I  think  I  will,"  she  said,  and  held  out  her  hand. 


BOOK    TWO 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  RECKONING 

IT  was  the  very  height  of  spring  in  Edinburgh;  the 
middle  of  May,  1695;  the  warm  sunny  day  was  fading 
into  dusk  and  the  street  lamps  were  lit  and  glittering 
yellow  through  the  twilight.  Before  a  magnificent 
mansion  in  the  finest  part  of  the  city,  a  large  crowd  was  gath- 
ered, an  angry  crowd  that  surged  up  and  down,  murmuring 
dangerously. 

And  in  the  front  room  of  the  mansion  a  man  sat  alone 
and  listened  to  that  ominous  sound  without. 

The  vast  room  was  unlit  and  the  long  windows  open 
to  the  balcony  and  fresh  spring  air;  the  heavy  furnishing  was 
splendid  to  excess;  its  one  occupant  sat  before  a  gold  harp- 
sichord, leaning  against  it,  with  face  turned  toward  the  win- 
dow; close  to  his  elbow  stood  a  crystal  vase  of  early  white  roses 
and  violets  and  on  the  white  wall  behind  him  was  painted  a 
cluster  of  hollyhocks  and  pinks. 

He  was  sumptuously  attired  in  heavy  white  satin  that 
shimmered  in  the  dusk;  round  his  neck  hung  the  dull  gold 
knots  and  roses  of  the  collar  of  St.  George,  and  below  his 
knees  the  bright  blue  of  the  Garter  showed;  there  were 
patches  on  his  face  and  his  black  ringlets  were  elaborately 
curled  and  powered  in  the  front. 

His  unbuckled  sword  lay  along  the  harpsichord;  now  and 
then  as  the  murmur  rose  to  a  shout  he  laid  his  hand  upon  it 

309 


310  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

and  his  black  brows  frowned.  For  John  Dalrymple,  first 
Earl  of  Stair,  felt  very  keenly  to-night  what  it  meant  to  be 
the  best  hated  man  in  Scotland. 

After  a  while  he  arose  with  a  stir  of  perfume  and  crossed 
midway  to  the  window. 

The  crowd  below  had  gathered  in  numbers;  they  pressed 
close  against  his  iron  gates;  and  from  the  confusion  of  voices 
one  word  rose  distinctly: 

"Glencoe!  Glencoe!" 

The  Earl  of  Stair  stepped  onto  the  balcony  and  at  the 
sight  of  him  there  rose  a  howl  of  execration;  he  frowned 
down  on  them  with  the  bitterest  scorn  and  turned  into  the 
room  again. 

A  stone  crashed  up  at  the  balcony  and  again  came:  "Glen- 
coe!" 

He  glanced  at  the  clock  and  rang  a  bell;  when  the  servant 
appeared  in  answer,  he  asked  for  lights.  "And  order  the 
coach,"  he  said. 

The  man  hesitated,  stopped. 

"My  lord  —  my  lord  —  you  will  not  go  abroad  ?" 

"To  my  Lord  Breadalbane's  reception,"  answered  the  Earl. 

"My  lord  —  does  your  lordship  hear  the  mob  ?" 

The  Earl  flared  with  impatience. 

"I  do  not  ask  your  attendance  —  if  there  be  one  man  in 
my  service  not  a  coward  let  him  drive,  it  will  suffice." 

The  servant  bowed  and  withdrew,  and  the  Earl  stood 
silent  in  the  center  of  the  room  until  the  man  returned  and, 
lifting  the  candles,  set  the  room  in  a  soft  glow. 

"Draw  the  curtains,"  commanded  the  Earl. 

The  servant  obeyed  and  as  the  pink  satin  was  drawn  over 
the  dark,  without  a  low  groan  rose  from  the  waiting  crowd. 


THE  RECKONING  311 

The  Earl  crossed  to  the  harpsichord,  picked  up  his  sword 
and  buckled  it  on. 

The  servant  softly  left  the  room,  and  the  inner  silence  was 
unbroken  till  the  rattle  of  the  coach  into  the  yard  below.  The 
crowd  gave  it  a  low,  dangerous  greeting  as  they  passed  and 
clamored  against  the  iron  railing. 

The  Earl  turned  a  glance  out  of  narrowed  eyes  at  the 
shrouded  windows  and  his  ringed  finger  shifted  his  sword  up 
and  down  in  the  scabbard. 

A  light  footstep  made  him  turn ;  it  was  his  wife. 

He  frowned;  she  passed  in  silence  to  the  harpsichord  and 
with  an  agitated  look  at  him  sank  into  the  seat  there. 

"Will  you  not  send  for  the  soldiers,  my  lord  ?" 

She  spoke  in  a  troubled  way;  with  halting  utterance  and  a 
nervous  foot  tapping  the  floor;  the  Earl  considered  her  a 
moment;  she  was  pale,  her  blonde  head  set  off  against  the 
crimson  and  purple  of  the  painted  flowers  behind  her;  her 
mauve  and  gold  gown  shone  in  a  bright  reflection  on  the 
polished  boards;  a  cloak  of  a  delicate  opal  color  was  clasped 
with  diamonds  over  her  bosom,  the  rich  black  and  white 
of  the  ermine  lining  showing  as  it  fell  apart. 

"You  are  not  coming  with  me?"  was  his  answer,  noting 
her. 

"Yes  —  "  she  gave  back  hurriedly.  "You  see  —  I  am 
dressed  —  " 

"Yesterday,  you  said  you  would  not  accompany  me,  ma- 
dam," he  commented  coldly,  "and  I  see  no  need." 

"I  should  prefer  to,  my  lord." 

"Why?  "he  frowned. 

"I  —  I  do  not  care  to  be  alone  —  these  people  outside 
frighten  me." 


312  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"There  are  the  servants." 

She  moved  uneasily.  "I  do  not  trust  servants  —  indeed, 
I  would  rather  come." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously;  it  was  rare  indeed  for  her  to  be 
anxious  for  his  company;  though  since  his  father's  death 
with  no  one  to  foment  it,  the  bitterness  between  them  had 
grown  less  active,  still  he  was  surprised  that  she  should 
so  far  depart  from  her  usual  silent  avoidance  of  him  as 
to  desire  to  accompany  him  to-night  —  to-night  when 
his  servants  shrank  from  driving  with  him  through 
Edinburgh  Town. 

She  waited  his  verdict  anxiously,  her  slender  fingers 
pulling  heedlessly  at  the  roses  and  violets  beside  her. 

"Why  not  send  for  the  soldiers  ?"  she  repeated  at  length. 
"They  are  dangerous  to-night  —  these  people. " 

He  lifted  his  shoulders  contemptuously. 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  them.  It  is  no  more  than  they  have  done 
before.  I  was  never  a  favorite  of  the  mob. " 

"Yet  these  are  in  earnest  —  this  question  of  Glencoe  —  " 

He  turned  on  her. 

"Madam  —  do  not  let  me  hear  that  word.  An  insensate 
party  cry  —  begun  by  the  Jacobites;  spread  by  my  enemies  — 
a  meaningless  parrot  call  —  what  is  Glencoe  to  me?  An 
act,  two  years  old  —  a  thing  cursedly  bungled  or  Hamilton 
had  not  left  any  alive  to  start  this  howl. " 

"Yet  the  King  has  ordered  an  inquiry  and  appointed  a 
commission,  has  he  not  ?" 

The  Earl  smiled  bitterly. 

"Madam,  my  enemies  have  forced  the  King  to  head  the 
stronger  party  —  what  does  he  know  of  it  ?  Nothing. " 

The  servant  entered  with  his  master's  hat  and  cloak; 


THE  RECKONING  313 

Lady  Stair  rose  with  a  faint  color  in  her  cheeks  and  drew 
her  hood  around  her  face. 

They  descended  the  stairs  in  silence;  below  the  secretary 
met  them  with  an  attempt  to  keep  the  Earl  within  the  house. 

The  footmen  had  refused  to  ride  behind  the  coach  (the 
Earl  was  not  beloved  by  his  servants).  Yet  to  go  unattended: 
Lord  Stair  smiled  unpleasantly. 

"Dismiss  them,"  he  said  briefly,  and  himself  opening  the 
door  stepped  out  into  the  portico. 

Between  him  and  the  mob  was  the  cobbled  yard,  behind 
the  high  iron  railings,  yet  it  seemed  as  if  this  would  little  as- 
sure him  safety  so  fierce  a  shout  burst  forth  when  it  beheld 
him. 

The  Master  of  Stair  had  always  been  hated;  though  his 
magnificence,  his  generosity  with  money,  his  recklessness 
in  politics  were  qualities  likely  to  be  beloved  by  the  populace, 
his  excessive  arrogance,  the  horrible  tales  connected  with  his 
house,  his  aloofness,  his  lack  of  amiable  vices,  his  swift  and 
brilliant  rise  from  a  mere  advocate  to  the  most  powerful  man 
in  Scotland,  were  things  not  to  be  forgiven  by  either  high  or 
low. 

And  he  had  always  been  on  the  unpopular  side,  always  serv- 
ed the  law  not  the  people;  he  was  merciless  too,  and  reckless 
in  making  enemies ;  they  who  for  two  years  had  been  working 
to  spread  the  tale  of  Glencoe,  found  that  to  give  some  or  any 
point  to  the  general  hate  of  the  Master  of  Stair  was  as  easy 
as  putting  a  match  to  gunpowder;  the  mob  shouted  "Glen- 
coe!"—  as  they  would  have  shouted  anything  that  voiced 
their  long  dislike;  high  and  low,  all  Edinburgh,  had  combined 
on  this  pretext  to  pull  the  Dalrymple  down. 

The  Earl  stared  at  the  mob  a  moment   and   his   blue 


314  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

eyes  darkened ;  he  knew  well  enough  the  value  of  their  shout 
of  horror  at  Glencoe  and  despised  them  the  more  utterly; 
he  was  not  afraid  that  all  his  enemies  together  could  accom- 
plish his  ruin ;  he  had  England  behind  him ;  and  during  these 
three  years  his  worldly  success  had  swept  him  on  and  up  be- 
yond all  meddling  with. 

He  helped  his  wife  into  the  coach;  she  had  turned  even 
whiter:  as  the  crowd  shouted  she  trembled:  her  husband 
took  no  heed  of  her. 

One  of  the  servants  ran  forward  to  open  the  gates:  the 
people  drew  back  quietly,  waiting  in  an  ominous  hush. 

The  coachman  whipped  up  his  horses  and  dashed  through 
the  gates  at  a  gallop.  Howls,  curses,  shrieks  arose  and  the 
mob  made  a  wild  onset,  but  the  hoofs  of  the  four  plunging 
horses  kept  a  passage  clear  and  the  coach  swept  free.  But 
the  crowd  followed  and  closed  about  it.  Lady  Stair  cowered 
in  a  corner.  Stones  rattled  on  the  roof  and  mud  was  flying 
at  the  windows;  stones  and  sticks  struck  the  coachman,  the 
carriage  came  to  a  standstill  and  a  wild  shout  burst  forth. 

The  Earl  cursed  fiercely  and  flung  the  window  up;  they 
shouted  up  vile  names  at  him  and  mouthed  foul  versions  of 
his  misfortunes  till  his  cheek  was  dark  with  passion. 

With  a  hard  face  he  slipped  his  hand  to  his  pocket. 

"Listen!"  he  pulled  the  door  open  and  leaned  for- 
ward. "If  ye  do  not  leave  go  of  the  horses  —  if  one 
of  you  come  a  step  nearer  —  I'll  shoot  the  dog. "  And  he 
lifted  his  white  and  silver  gloved  hand  closed  round  the  glitter 
of  a  pistol. 

For  an  instant  his  firm  reckless  facing  of  them  discomposed 
the  crowd,  yet  the  sight  of  his  lowering  dark  face  as  greatly 
roused  their  wrath  anew. 


THE  RECKONING  315 

"Ye  damned  Dalrymple!"  shouted  one  man.  "Answer  for 
the  bluid  o'  Glencoe !" 

As  he  spoke  he  leaped  to  gain  the  open  doorway  of  the 
coach. 

The  Earl  seized  him  by  the  collar  and  hurled  him  back- 
wards into  the  mass.  "By  God!"  he  cried  with  blazing  eyes, 
"I'll  have  the  law  on  you,  you  hounds  —  I'll  have  you  whipped 
and  hanged  for  this." 

His  fierce  voice  rose  above  the  clamor  and  stirred  fury  beyond 
awe.  There  was  a  wild  dash  at  the  coach  and  in  another  mo- 
ment the  mob  would  have  dragged  Earl  Stair  to  his  death. 
But  Lady  Stair  had  risen  from  her  place  in  the  interior,  for- 
gotten by  her  husband,  unknown  of  by  the  mob. 

Now  she  caught  his  arm  and  slipped  into  view  in  the 
doorway. 

"Don't  fire!"  she  said;  she  lifted  a  beseeching  face. 

The  carriage  lamps  fell  on  her  bright  fairness  and  the 
shimmer  of  her  dress;  the  night  wind  blew  her  hair  and 
ribbons  about  her;  in  the  sudden  surprise  of  her  appear- 
ance the  crowd  was  silent. 

The  Earl's  hand  dropped  to  his  side. 

"Surely  you  will  let  us  pass,"  she  said,  looking  round  her 
in  a  gentle  way. 

There  was  no  one  there  who  had  any  wish  to  shed  blood 
before  Lady  Dalrymple;  she  was  greatly  beloved  in  Edin- 
burgh and  neither  her  beauty  nor  her  fearlessness  failed  of 
their  effect. 

"We  willna'  touch  ye,  mistress,"  cried  a  man.  "Stand 
awa'  frae  yer  husband. " 

But  she  had  laid  her  hand  on  the  Earl's  breast  and  though 
he  sought  to  move  her,  kept  her  place. 


316  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Ye  hae  a  bad  lord !"  shouted  another.  "But  ye  are  a  gentle 
leddy  —  stand  f rae  the  Earl  — 

"Madam  —  retire!"  cried  her  husband,  very  white. 

But  she  took  no  heed  of  him. 

"Give  us  leave  to  pass,"  she  said  very  softly. 

They  fell  away  from  the  carriage  door;  it  was  obvious 
that  they  would  not  touch  him  while  she  was  there;  the 
horses,  suddenly  freed,  dashed  ahead. 

The  Earl  drew  his  wife  inside  and  closed  the  door. 

"Now,  why,  madam,  why  that  ?"  he  demanded  breathlessly. 

She  drew  away  with  a  little  shudder  to  the  farthest  corner 
of  the  coach. 

The  crowd  had  fallen  away  to  right  and  left;  they  were 
proceeding  unhindered. 

"What  did  you  think  I  should  do  ?"  she  answered. 

He  seated  himself,  leaning  towards  her.  "Did  you  accom- 
pany me,  madam,  that  you  might  play  my  good  angel  ? " 

She  looked  away. 

"I  knew  that  they  would  not  touch  you  while  I  was  there." 

In  utter  amazement  he  stared  at  her. 

"I  am  much  beholden  to  your  —  charity,"  he  said 
haughtily. 

She  glanced  round,  saw  his  expression,  and  the  blood  flew 
into  her  face. 

"Spare  your  gratitude,  my  lord,"  she  said  bitterly,  "I 
would  have  done  as  much  for  any. " 

He  frowned.  "I  did  not  think  that  I  evoked  your  peculiar 
solicitude,"  he  answered.  "Doubtless  you  like  to  display  your 
exemption  from  the  hatred  my  house  is  held  in." 

"My  lord !"  she  cried,  "that  savors  of  your  father's  tongue 
—  and  is  unworthy.17 


THE  RECKONING  317 

"You  must  pardon  me,"  he  said  in  a  proud  voice,  "but  I 
am  not  used,  madam,  to  be  an  object  of  pity." 

Lady  Stair  gazed  from  the  window  blindly  on  the  dark 
streets. 

"I  did  not  use  the  word,  my  lord." 

"Madam,  you  performed  the  act." 

She  turned  suddenly  in  a  half-desperate  manner.  "Do  you 
suppose  that  I  want  to  see  you  hurt  —  or  killed  ?"  she  asked. 

He  lifted  his  eyebrows;  his  face  with  wrath  was  near  as 
white  as  his  dress. 

"I  should  not  have  imagined  that  it  would,  madam,  have 
greatly  afflicted  you." 

Her  blue  eyes  glared  at  him  curiously. 

"You  strangely  misunderstand,"  she  said  slowly,  "you  are 
very  hard  —  but  I  —  of  late,  I  have  grown  more  passive  — 
what  does  it  all  matter  ?  Think,  my  lord,  what  you  will. " 
She  rested  her  head  against  the  cushions  and  her  hands 
fell  together  in  her  lap ;  her  husband  turned  his  head  away 
sharply;  her  presence  was  a  fret,  her  sad  face  a  reproach; 
she  had  been  very  quiet  of  late;  from  one  month's  end  to 
another  he  took  little  notice  of  her,  but  to-night  she  was  forced 
on  him;  he  could  not  help  seeing  her  delicate  soft  fairness, 
her  drooping  mouth;  he  could  not  get  away  from  the  unhappi- 
ness  she  was  a  symbol  of. 

They  drove  in  silence;  idly  Lady  Stair  pulled  at  her  fan 
and  stared  out  of  the  window;  moodily  he  traced  patterns  on 
the  coach  floor  with  his  scabbard  point,  his  face  turned  from 
her.  So  they  galloped  through  Edinburgh  and  thundered  into 
the  courtyard  of  Lord  Breadalbane's  house. 


CHAPTER  II 
FOREBODINGS 

THE  musicians  were  playing  the  delicate  melody 
of  a  pavan  in  Lady  Breadalbane's  ball-room, 
the  air  was  heavy  with  the  scent  of  the  white 
and  pink  roses  that  decorated  the  walls  and  the 
rhythmical  movements  of  the  dancers  were  reflected  in  smooth 
pale  floors. 

In  a  little  card-room  opening  on  the  ball-room  sat  Breadal- 
bane  and  the  Earl  of  Stair,  in  converse. 

Breadalbane  appeared  ill  and  anxious;  his  delicate  face 
was  pale  and  drawn,  his  manner  strained  to  composure  and 
quiet.  Their  discourse  lay  round  the  word  now  in  the  mouth 
of  all  Scotland,  Glencoe. 

"Ye  hae  heard  ?"  said  Breadalbane,  "that  the  King's 
commission  appointed  to  make  the  inquiry  canna  be  kept 
off  it  ony  longer.  The  feeling  is  ower  strang. " 

The  Earl  of  Stair's  foot  beat  time  softly  to  the  pavan; 
he  gazed  with  an  inscrutable  face  toward  the  distant 
dancers. 

"Tweeddale  and  the  other  privy  councilors  will  hold  this 
investigation  in  a  day  or  so  —  even  ye,  my  lord,  canna  stop 
them." 

Still  the  other  made  no  answer. 

"Ye  hav'na',"  continued  Breadalbane,  "the  power  ye  had, 
my  lord,  tho'  to  the  world  ye  seem  at  the  pinnacle  o'  fame  — 

318 


FOREBODINGS  319 

but  the  Presbyterians  and  the  Jacks  together  will  be  too  strang 
for  ye  noo." 

The  Earl's  blue  eyes  flashed. 

"I  do  not  dread  the  inquiry,"  he  said.  "Albeit  it  is  conducted 
by  my  enemies  —  my  bitter  enemies,  Johnstone  and  Tweed- 
dale." 

"Ay,"  answered  Breadalbane,  "ye  hae  mony  enemies,  and 
they'll  ruin  ye  if  they  can,  but  'tis  ane  bitter  enemy  has  wrought 
this." 

"Who  mean  ye  ?"  frowned  Lord  Stair. 

Breadalbane  lifted  his  shoulders. 

"I  dinna  ken — ye  should  ken  best  —  some  one  has  been 
at  work  —  persistently,  during  these  three  years  this  tale 
has  been  abroad,  through  the  non- jurors,  the  Jacks  —  to 
your  enemies  in  Parliament  —  till  all  Scotland  is  roused. 
Who  is  at  the  bottom  of  it  ?" 

Lord  Stair  turned  slowly  to  the  speaker. 

"A  tale  springing  from  the  Jacks,"  he  said  scornfully. 
°Will  any  believe  it  ?  It  does  not  trouble  me.  I  have  not  even 
heard  their  version." 

"Ye  are  ower  sure,  Lord  Stair  —  the  work  has  been 
slow  but  certain  —  the  tale  is  in  every  mouth. " 

"What  tale,  my  lord  ?" 

"The  tale  o'  what  they  call  the  massacre  o'  Glencoe. " 

"What  do  they  say?"  asked  Lord  Stair  with  a  disdainful 
smile. 

"They  say  that  the  Macdonalds  were  murdered  by  your 
orders  —  they  say  that  the  soldiers  entered  the  Glen  by 
black  treachery,  feigning  friendship,  that  they  lived  there 
ower  a  fortnicht,  feasting  and  drinking,  that  they  rose  one 
nicht  and  murdered  the  clan  in  their  beds,  butchered  them, 


320  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

men,  women  and  children,  with  every  cruelty  —  that  is  the 
tale  they  tell,  Lord  Stair. " 

"It  is  a  lie." 

"Yea  —  it  is  a  lee  —  but  ye  canna,  I  ken,  prove  it  a  lee. 
The  inquiry  will  be  behind  closed  doors  —  it  will  be  con- 
ducted by  your  enemies;  ye  hae  all  Scotland  believing  this  lee 
—  and  against  ye. " 

Lord  Stair  spoke  impatiently. 

"Every  soldier  under  Glenlyon  knows  that  this  was  a 
military  execution  —  every  man  among  them  can  disprove 
this  wild  tale  of  the  Jacobites  — 

"The  Argyllshire  regiment  is  in  America,"  said  Breadal- 
bane,  "and  I  hav'na'  seen  Glenlyon  since  he  left  my  service 
suddenly  —  disappeared  —  " 

Lord  Stair  seemed  struck  into  a  frowning  silence  for  a 
moment.  At  length  he  asked: 

"Whom  will  they  examine  —  these  commissioners  ?" 

Breadalbane  lifted  his  light  eyes. 

"Sandy  and  Ian  Macdonald  who  escaped  —  Keppoch  and 
Glengarry  —  I  dinna  ken  —  what  others  —  I  am  nae  in 
their  secrets." 

Again  in  silence  Lord  Stair  looked  out  across  the  ball- 
room; the  delicate  melody  of  the  pa  van  came  exquisitely 
through  the  roses. 

Lord  Stair's  mouth  curved  into  a  little  smile;  he  did  not 
fear;  he  despised  his  enemies;  that  they  had  discovered  such 
a  weapon  as  this  against  him  roused  his  bitter  amusement 
more  than  his  wrath.  He  disdained  to  be  moved  by  insults 
raked  from  the  very  mud  of  the  gutter;  he  cared  nothing  for 
tales  started  in  Jacobite  pamphlets.  No  remorse  troubled 
him  with  regard  to  Glencoe;  he  was  too  sure  of  himself,  his 


FOREBODINGS  321 

great  position,  the  King's  friendship,  to  tremble  before  the 
Scottish  Parliament. 

"Let  them  open  the  commission,"  he  said  loftily,  "let  them 
listen  to  the  lies  of  Highland  savages.  I  shall  not  lift  a  finger 
to  prevent  them.  They  must  have  a  party  cry  —  as  well 
Glencoe  as  any  other." 

He  took  one  of  the  roses  from  the  bowl  on  the  card  table 
and  pulled  idly  at  the  curling  leaves ;  his  eyes  were  carelessly 
following  the  figure  of  his  wife  as  her  gold  embroideries 
flashed  among  the  dancers. 

Breadalbane  watched  him  curiously. 

"Ye  are  ower  easy,  Lord  Stair.  Ye  ken  the  ugly  things  the 
inquiry  will  reveal  ?  How  they  took  the  oath  and  it  was 
suppressed  —  for  your  ain  purpose. " 

Lord  Stair  flicked  a  torn  petal  from  his  white  sleeve. 

"I  had  authority  to  suppress  what  I  choose,  my  lord," 
he  answered  indifferently.  "The  oath  was  invalid  —  as  it 
came  in  too  late,  and  so  I  treated  it.  Besides,  have  you  for- 
gotten that  I  had  the  King's  warrant  ?" 

A  faint  smile  touched  Breadalbane's  thin  lips. 

"Will  the  King  stand  by  ye  ?"  he  asked.  "Will  he  no'  say 
that  he  didna'  ken  what  he  signed  ?" 

Lord  Stair  sat  silent.  Breadalbane's  keen  insight  had 
brought  him  to  the  truth.  Stair  thought  of  that  day  at  Kensing- 
ton when  William  had  signed  the  order  without  reading  it, 
and  for  the  first  time  a  vague  uneasiness  touched  him;  he 
turned  at  last,  half-angrily. 

"Why  this  anxiety  on  my  behalf,  my  lord  ?"  he  demanded. 
"You  had  a  share  in  this  business,  yet  you  are  safe  —  thanks 
to  your  prudence." 

The  pavan  was  over.  Lord  Stair  watched  his  wife  till  she 


322  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

had  gone  out  of  sight  with  her  partner;  he  had  pulled  the  rose 
away  to  the  heart  and  absently  he  played  with  the  pile  of 
petals  on  the  table  beside  him. 

"Mae  mon's  prudence,"  remarked  Breadalbane  a  little 
bitterly,  "can  take  account  of  such  a  mischance  as  this  — 
some  one  hae  been  working  in  the  dark  —  some  black  steady 
malice  hae  been  accomplishing  this." 

"The  malice  of  the  Jacks,"  suggested  Lord  Stair  with  a 
smile. 

"It's  mair  than  that,  my  lord  —  is  this  story  that  makes 
England  and  France  shout  shame  on  us  and  the  mob  pelt 
us  as  we  pass,  a  mere  invention  of  the  Jacks  ?  Ye  hae  a  bitter 
secret  enemy  —  my  lord  —  canna  ye  guess  at  one  wha  might 
do  this  thing?" 

Lord  Stair  dragged  the  pilfered  rose  across  the  table,  leaving 
the  gold  pollen  dust  staining  the  inlaid  wood;  he  still  smiled. 

"I  know  of  none  —  my  enemies  are  numerous  —  but  not  — 
my  lord,  secret. " 

The  violins  commenced  a  gavotte.  Lady  Stair  crossed  the 
floor,  Mr.  Wharton  was  her  partner;  her  husband  looked 
at  them  and  reflected  that  Mr.  Wharton  was  too  often  in 
Edinburgh;  these  three  years  had  not  softened  his  dislike  of 
the  good-humored  beau. 

Breadalbane  spoke  again. 

"Ye  are  mistaken  —  the  maist  deadly  of  your  enemies 
is  the  hidden  one  wha  hae  trumped  up  this  tale. " 

"Maybe  it  is  an  enemy  of  your  own,"  answered  Lord  Stair. 
"Maybe  you,  my  lord,  are  the  object  of  this  spite. " 

"It  is  na  directed  against  me  —  if  I  fall  it  will  be  only  in 
complication  wi*  ye  —  they  hav'na'  mentioned  me  —  it  is 
always  ye,  Lord  Stair." 


FOREBODINGS  323 

A  little  silence  fell;  no  voices  broke  the  spirited  measure  of 
the  gavotte;  Lord  Stair  trifled  lazily  with  the  ruined  rose; 
Breadalbane  watched  him  covertly. 

The  candle-light  gleamed  softly  on  the  round  arms  and  bare 
shoulders  of  the  women  as  they  passed  between  their  partners 
and  courtesied,  each  reflected  in  the  long  mirrors  lining  the 
room,  so  that  three  Lady  Stairs  appeared  to  be  dancing,  one 
in  profile,  one  full  face,  one  with  her  back,  all  clad  in  satin 
that  caught  rippling  lights  and  gleaming  shadows,  all  smil- 
ing, faintly. 

Lord  Stair  spoke  at  length. 

"My  letters  —  that  I  wrote  at  the  time  of  this  affair  —  you 
kept  them  ?" 

"They  were  vera  imprudent  —  yes,  I  kept  them." 

Lord  Stair  lifted  his  blue  eyes;  they  were  dark,  a  little 
troubled. 

"You  can  give  them  back  to  me,  my  lord,  there  is  no  need 
for  them  to  serve  Tweeddale's  turn. " 

The  music  crashed  to  its  climax;  the  three  Lady  Stair's  ad- 
vanced, receded,  bowed  with  the  glittering  shaking  of  a  cloud 
of  gold  embroideries. 

"Send  me  those  letters,"  repeated  Lord  Stair.  "I  shall  be 
obliged,  my  lord." 

A  curious  look  passed  over  Breadalbane's  face. 

"They  are  nae  langer  in  my  possession. " 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Tweeddale  sent  for  them  —  to  be  examined  — wi'  your 
letters  to  the  Commander  of  the  Forces. " 

Lord  Stair  flushed  and  turned  quickly  in  his  chair. 

"And  you  sent  them  ?" 

Breadalbane  smiled. 


324  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Yes." 

"Now  —  by  heaven,  my  lord,  that  was  ill  done !" 

Unmoved,  Breadalbane  lifted  his  shoulders. 

"I  must  show  my  authority  —  I  canna  tak'  the  blame  — 
ye  wrote  them,  ye  must  even  tak*  the  —  credit,  Lord  Stair. " 

"You  have  treated  me  unworthily. " 

The  Earl  of  Stair  was  breathing  fast,  he  clenched  his  hand 
on  the  rose  petals  and  his  angry  eyes  glanced  disdainfully 
over  his  companion;  but  Breadalbane  kept  his  composure. 

"As  ye  mak'  naething  o'  the  affair,"  he  remarked  dryly, 
"ye  dinna  need  to  care  that  the  Marquis  o'  Tweeddale  will 
be  reading  your  letters. " 

"Care?"  echoed  Lord  Stair.  "I  care  for  none  of  it  — you, 
my  lord,  behave  according  to  your  nature.  I  am  your  guest. 
We  will  let  the  matter  of  the  papers  pass.  After  all  I  should 
not  have  expected  otherwise,  and  I  am  not  ashamed  of  what 
I  have  written. " 

Breadalbane  was  quiet,  slightly  discomfited  by  the  magni- 
ficent manner  and  person  of  the  man  whose  reckless  impru- 
dence his  cunning  despised. 

Lord  Stair  rose,  sweeping  the  petals  in  a  cloud  onto  the 
floor;  bowed,  and  passed  into  the  ball-room. 

The  gavotte  was  over,  the  company  stood  about  in  little 
knots;  as  Lord  Stair  passed  he  heard  fragments  of  their 
converse;  it  seemed  that  they  talked  of  nothing  save  Glencoe, 
Glencoe  and  the  impending  commission. 

Johnstone  was  there,  his  fellow-minister  and  rival;  he 
crossed  the  room  to  make  some  smiling  remarks  to  him  upon 
the  current  topic. 

"Ye  have  some  enemy  at  work,  my  lord,"  said  Johnstone 
with  a  pleasant  spite. 


FOREBODINGS  325 

Lord  Stair  gazed  at  him  in  a  disdainful  silence,  but  the 
words  pierced  the  armor  of  his  splendid  scorn. 

Had  not  Breadalbane  said  the  same  ?  Some  secret  enemy 
working  his  ruin. 

He  thought  it  over  gloomily;  it  was  part  of  the  curse  over 
the  Dalrymples,  perchance,  part  of  the  bitter  curse  that  at 
last,  after  he  had  stifled  the  miseries  of  his  personal  tragedies 
with  brilliant,  mighty  success,  he  should  be  pulled  to  ruin  by 
some  unknown  enemy. 

He  had  seated  himself  in  front  of  one  of  the  great  mirrors 
and  gazed  frowningly  at  the  company;  his  wife  passed  with 
Tom  Wharton;  he  took  no  heed  of  her  save  to  wonder  bitterly 
what  she  would  do  were  he  ruined,  if  such  a  wild  thing 
happened  and  he  was  brought  low.  What  would  she  do  ? 
He  thought  grimly  that  her  company  would  not  trouble 
him  in  that  case;  doubtless  she  would  be  glad  of  the 
scandal  of  his  disgrace  to  cover  the  scandal  of  her  deser- 
tion; the  thin  chain  that  held  her  would  be  snapped,  when 
the  world  turned  on  him  so  would  she;  he  was  sure  of  it, 
and  he  reflected  how  easily  his  fortunes,  his  name,  his  honor 
could  be  pulled  to  the  dust  if  Tweeddale  and  his  faction 
triumphed. 

But  his  arrogance  dismissed  even  the  shadow  of  humil- 
iation; he  had  been  howled  at,  reviled,  threatened  before; 
this  storm  would  pass  as  others  had  done;  he  had  weathered 
too  much  for  a  paltry  matter  such  as  this  Glencoe  affair  to 
overthrow  him. 

With  the  calm  of  his  conscious  pride  he  looked  round  on  the 
brilliant  crowd.  He  was  well  aware  that  most  of  them  were 
his  ill-wishers,jhe  would  not  have  been  to  the  trouble  of  turning 
his  head  to  conciliate  one  of  them;  they  might  say  what  they 


326  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

would  of  him,  he  would  stoop  to  neither  justification  nor 
defense. 

As  the  music  recommenced,  his  wife  advanced  into  the 
recess.  She  seemed  agitated  and  to  hesitate,  and  paused 
looking  at  him  strangely. 

"The  things  they  say!"  she  breathed  quickly.  "Have  you 
heard  ?" 

His  face  hardened,  disdaining  to  answer.  He  glanced  away, 
but  she,  ignoring  the  repulse,  crossed  the  polished  floor  with  a 
sweep  of  satin  and  put  her  hand  on  the  back  of  his  chair. 

"It  is  not  true,  my  lord,"  she  asked,  "this  tale  —  it  is 
some  slander  of  the  Jacobites  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  sideways  in  a  manner  that  made  her 
blench. 

"Has  my  Lord  Wharton  been  giving  you  his  version  of  this 
tale .?"  he  asked. 

She  answered,  very  quietly. 

"He  —  and  others  —  it  is  in  the  air  —  and  because  I 
know  —  something  of  what  happened  three  years  ago  when 
this  affair  of  the  Macdonalds  was  first  broached  —  " 

"So  —  you  care  to  remind  me  of  that?"  he  interrupted 
hotly. 

Her  wide  eyes  held  a  mournful  steadiness. 

"Why  not  my  lord  ?  You  need  not  fear  any  knowledge 
of  mine!  That  the  Macdonalds  actually  took  the  oath  is 
now  common  talk  —  tell  me  —  is  this  story  of  the  massacre 
the  truth  ?" 

Very  intently  and  earnestly  she  looked  at  him. 

"It  is  horrible,"  she  said,  "the  cruelty  —  the  treachery  — 
babies  slain  and  little  children  dying  of  cold  —  my  lord, 
my  lord,  you  did  not  sanction  it  ?" 


FOREBODINGS  327 

He  turned  his  head  slowly  toward  her. 

"You  may  think  so  if  you  will,"  he  answered  coldly. 

Her  hand  fell  from  his  chair,  she  drew  back  a  step. 

"Then  —  it  is  true  ?" 

"I  shall  not  deny  it  —  if  you  care  to  think  so  you  may." 

The  look  of  aversion  that  was  so  at  variance  with  her  soft 
face  sprang  into  her  eyes. 

"Is  that  your  answer  ?  You  will  not  deny  it  ?" 

"No,"  he  said  indifferently,  "neither  to  you  nor  to  any 
other." 

"They  will  ruin  you  for  it,"  she  cried  breathing  quickly. 

His  eyes  flashed;  he  thought  she  would  had  she  dared  have 
finished  her  sentence,  "and  I  shall  be  free." 

"They  may  try,"  he  said.  "It  will  interest  you,  will  it  not, 
madam  ?" 

She  flung  up  her  head  in  a  desperate  manner. 

"It  interests  me  more  to  know  whether  you  are  or  are  not 
the  infamous  wretch  these  people  paint  you." 

Lord  Stair's  usual  pallor  deepened.  He  tightened  his  lips 
and  would  not  speak;  his  wife  considered  him  with  baffled 
eyes,  hesitated,  then  broke  into  open  appeal. 

"I  would  take  your  word,"  she  cried. 

"With  a  little  kindness  of  voice  or  tone  or  look,  with  a 
gentle  gesture,  a  denial  of  the  guilt  that  was  at  least  not  his, 
he  could  have  won  her  now,  won  her  to  believe  in  him,  to 
stand  by  him;  he  knew  it  but  he  would  not  soften,  retract  or 
explain,  not  by  so  much  as  a  little  word  would  his  pride  deign 
to  bridge  the  gulf  between  them. 

He  stared  at  her  coldly  with  a  bitter  smile. 

"Madam,  I  shall  not  offer  you  my  word,"  he  answered. 
"It  is  of  little  matter  what  you  think  of  me. " 


328  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

She  moved  away  from  him  quivering,  with  outraged  eyes. 

"Very  well,"  she  said  below  her  breath,  "I  shall  know 
what  to  think  of  you.  If  you  did  this  thing  —  if  the  blood  of 
those  babes  is  on  your  head." 

He  rose  suddenly;  the  George  hanging  to  the  collar  of 
knots  and  roses  heaved  and  glittered  with  his  angry  breathing. 

"Keep  this  talk  for  those  who  are  your  usual  company, 
madam,"  he  said  fiercely.  "What  do  you  think  the  brats  ot 
savages  are  to  me?" 

And  he  swung  out  of  the  recess  into  the  ball-room. 

Lady  Stair  looked  after  him,  and  her  gentle  face  grew  hard : 
her  delicate  hand  waved  her  fan  to  and  fro,  slowly  under  her 
chin ;  she  stood  erect,  silent. 

The  music  crept  to  her  ears  in  a  slow  melody;  the  gently 
moving  fan  kept  time  with  it;  with  narrowed  eyes  she  turned 
and  looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror. 

It  was  a  tragic  face  she  saw  there,  a  hopeless  face. 

With  a  curious  impulse,  she  leaned  forward  and  kissed 
the  lips  of  her  reflection,  kissed  the  cold  glass  and  smiled  into 
her  own  eyes,  with  an  utter  sadness. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  TRIUMPH  OF  THE  CAMPBELLS 

THE  guests  had  gone ;  the  roses  hung  limp  and  faded ; 
guttering,  dying  candles  cast  a  dull  light  over  the 
Countess  Peggy  as  she  stood  in  her  deserted  ball- 
room. 

She  leaned  against  a  mirror;  her  red  hair  fell  over  her  bare 
white  shoulders  and  purple  dress;  at  her  bosom  drooped  a 
cluster  of  crimson  roses;  with  anxious  eyes  she  looked  at  the 
gray-clad  figure  of  her  husband,  who  sat  beside  her  in  an  atti- 
tude of  utter  weariness. 

"What  will  be  the  end  of  it,  Jock  ?"  she  asked  in  a  hushed 
voice. 

"Ruin  for  the  Earl  o'  Stair,"  he  answered,  "They've  set 
their  minds  to  it,  Tweeddale  and  his  crew,  and  they'll  na 
be  letting  him  escape,  there  is  enough  against  him  to  hang 
him  —  though  he'll  no'  be  persuaded  of  it. " 

"Let  Lord  Stair  go,"  said  the  Countess,  "I  dinna  care  — 
what  will  be  the  end  of  it  for  ye,  Jock  ?" 

He  gave  her  a  tender  look. 

"Why  —  they  hav'na'  ony  evidence  against  me,  Peggy — 
I  didna'  put  my  name  to  rash  letters  —  they  canna  prove 
ony  thing  —  I'm  safe  enow  —  and  sae  is  Argyll  —  though  he 
is  half -demented  wi'  fear. " 

"But  this  trumped  up  foolery  o'  Glenlyon  feasting  a 
fortnicht  in  the  Glen,  Jock  —  that  touches  us  —  " 

329 


330  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

The  Earl  smiled. 

"It  doesna'  —  Glenlyon  had  his  commands  frae  Hamilton 
na  frae  me  —  and  Glenlyon  —  Glenlyon  hae  been  bought 
by  the  Jacks  —  I  hae  heard  —  this  vera  evening  —  that  he 
hae  appeared  and  will  be  examined  before  the  commission- 
ers." 

"But  however  Glenlyon  lee  —  we  can  disprove  that  the 
Campbells  were  in  the  Glen  a  f ortnicht. " 

"We  can,"  answered  the  Earl,   "but  we  willna'.    Dinna 
ye  see,  Peggy  —  we  must  ken  naething  o'  what  occurred  - 
we  were  miles  awa'  —  at  Kilchurn,  we  must  say  —  we  ken 
naething  —  naething.  If  we  disprove  lees  that  dinna  harm 
us  we  must  reveal  the  truth  —  which  wad  be  vera  damaging. " 

"Then  Lord  Stair  will  indeed  be  ruined,"  said  the  Countess 
slowly.  "But  it  is  na  ony  business  o*  ours.  Ye  may  trust  my 
silence,  Jock." 

She  moved  to  the  window  and  pulled  aside  the  curtain; 
the  stars  hung  bright  and  luminous  above  the  sleeping  city; 
a  church  clock  struck  one 

The  Countess  Peggy  leaned  her  head  against  the  mullions 
and  her  face  fell  into  lines  of  weariness ;  she  twisted  the  ends 
of  her  bright  hair  in  and  out  of  slack  fingers  and  the  withered 
roses  on  her  breast,  crushed  against  the  window-frame,  shed 
their  faded  leaves  at  her  feet. 

Many  of  the  candles  had  guttered  to  the  socket  and  gone 
out;  only  two  or  three,  burning  ghostly  before  the  tall  mirrors, 
remained  to  cast  a  light  through  the  darkened  room. 

Silence  and  loneliness  were  abroad ;  the  Countess  gazed  up 
at  the  infinite  distance  of  the  stars  and  shivered  through  her 
slender  body;  against  the  sky  rose  a  misty  vision  often  seen 
by  her:  the  vision  of  a  man  with  a  beautiful  face  and  clothes 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  THE  CAMPBELLS         331 

clay-stained  and  bloody,  holding  a  lace  cravat  and  looking 
at  her  with  mournful  eyes. 

She  smiled  bitterly  as  she  thought  of  the  uselessness  of 
that  blood  on  her  soul;  Jerome  Caryl  might  have  lived.  An 
obscure  traitor  had  informed  and  the  plot  to  be  carried  out 
at  Turnham  Green  had  come  to  nothing. 

She  turned  from  the  stars  and  her  eyes  sought  her  husband. 

"Jock!"  she  cried,  and  there  was  a  world  of  tenderness, 
of  appeal,  of  passion  in  her  voice.  "Jock!" 

She  crossed  the  great  shadowy  room  to  where  he  sat  and 
went  on  her  knees  beside  him. 

"I  did  it  for  ye,"  she  murmured,  as  if  answering  an  ac- 
cusation. "Jock  —  I  hae  served  ye  weel  ?" 

He  took  her  hands  in  his  and  smiled  down  at  her. 

"Peggy,  ye  ken  vera  weel  ye  are  all  the  world  to  me,"  he 
said  most  tenderly. 

Her  head  drooped  against  his  arm. 

"Then  I  dinna  care  for  onything,"  she  whispered.  "Yet  at 
times  I'm  no'  sae  brave  —  I'm  afraid. " 

Breadalbane's  wide  light  eyes  gazed  across  the  dark. 

"Afraid  o'  what,  Peggy  ?" 

She  drew  a  little  closer  to  him. 

"Of  wraiths  —  o'  the  dead." 

He  smiled,  fondling  her  hair. 

"I  wad'na'  fear  when  dead  what  I  had'na'  feared  when 
living,  Peggy." 

"Nay,  nay,  I  dinna  fear  —  at  least  I'm  no'  afraid,  Jock, 
when  ye  are  close  —  but  —  Ah,  Jock  —  wad  I  could  forget !" 

He  frowned  above  his  smile. 

"Are  ye  thinking  of  the  Macdonalds,  Peggy  ?" 

With  a  little  uneasy  movement  she  lifted  her  head;  her 


332  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

long  throat  gleamed  unnaturally  white  above  her  dark  dress. 

"Sometimes  —  I  —  think  o'  the  Macdonalds. " 

Breadalbane  laughed  as  if  he  cast  aside  some  foolish 
fancy. 

"We  hae  triumphed  ower  the  Macdonalds,  Peggy  —  the 
auld  thief  Makian  got  his  deserts." 

"Yea,  I  ken." 

"And  Ronald  Macdonald  — ye  hated  him,  Peggy." 

"I  ken,"  she  said  hastily,  with  yearning  eyes  on  his  face. 
"I  wad  I  might  forget." 

"Wherefore,  Peggy?" 

"Ah !  —  sleeping  and  waking  —  I  see  it  —  the  Glen  o' 
Weeping  —  as  I  rode  through  it  that  day  wi'  the  smoke 
drifting  ower  the  corpses  —  and  the  bitter  dawn  a-breaking 
—  the  bluid  ower  the  heather  and  the  silence,  the  silence." 

With  a  half-shudder  her  eyes  drooped  and  her  clasp  of 
his  arm  tightened. 

"This    is    fules'    talk,"    said    Breadalbane    imperiously. 
"Sic  sights  are  common  in  the  Hielands  —  ye  ken  vera  weel  — 
the  Campbells  hae  fed  the  eagles  often  enow  —  I  shouldna' 
hae  thought  that  ye,  Peggy,  wad  hae  sickened  at  the  bluid  o' 
the  Macdonalds." 

"I  dinna  —  but  —  I  canna  forget. " 

Breadalbane's  eyes  flashed. 

"Nay  —  because  the  Hielands  are  clear  o'  the  thieves  — 
we  canna  forget,  when  we  see  Argyllshire  and  Invernesshire 
free  to  the  Campbells,  when  we  can  ride  unarmed  with  nae 
to  question  us  —  lords  o'  the  Hielands.  Ye  say  weel  we  canna 
forget." 

She  warmed  a  little  in  response  to  his  tone.  "I  dinna  regret 
or  repent,"  she  said.  "Hate  o'  the  Macdonalds  is  in  the  bluid 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  THE  CAMPBELLS         333 

—  it  is  na  son-row  for  them  but  fear  —  fear  maybe,  Jock,  o' 
the  reckoning. " 

"We  shallna'  pay,  Peggy  —  Lord  Stair  will  answer  to  that. " 

Lady  Breadalbane  was  silent,  only  something  like  a  sigh 
escaped  her. 

The  last  candle  sank  into  darkness;  only  the  pale  light  of 
the  stars  and  the  street  lamps  without  illumined  the  room. 

"And  he  will  pay,"  said  Breadalbane. 

She  started  from  a  reverie. 

"Who  ?" 

"Lord  Stair." 

"Ye  think  he  will  be  ruined  ?" 

"What  else  ?  They  will  put  it  all  on  him  —  the  King  canna 
do  less  than  dismiss  him." 

"Weel,  Jock,  we  dinna  care." 

"Nay  —  I  never  liked  him. " 

"Nor  I  —  and  his  wife,  Jock,  is  a  f ule. " 

"She  willna'  abide  by  him  if  he  be  ruined." 

"She  will  leave  him,  Jock  —  ye  think  ?" 

"I  know  and  he  knows  —  she  hasna'  a  tie  to  hold  her  — 
she  will  be  blithe  of  his  disgrace. " 

"She  hates  him  —  weel,  I  never  knew  ony  that  loved  a 
Dalrymple  —  they  say  Lord  Stair's  mither  wad  sit  on  her 
husband's  judgment  seat  in  the  likeness  o'  a  black  cat  —  an 
she  hated  him  —  there  is  somewhat  uncanny  in  the  bluid  — 
ye  couldna'  love  a  Dalrymple. " 

"Yet  Lord  Stair  is  the  handsomest  gentleman  in  Scotland;. 
Peggy,"  smiled  Breadalbane. 

"Weel  —  he  is  na  winning  —  an  there  is  too  much  of  the 
auld  Viscount,  wha  made  his  neck  awry  striving  to  listen 
to  the  divil,  aboot  him." 


334  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"The  divil  must  be  Lord  Stair's  advocate  noo  —  for  there 
is  no  one  else  in  Scotland  will  be. " 

A  silence  while  they  gazed  at  the  paling  sky  through  the 
long  windows;  then  Breadalbane  spoke. 

"Peggy  —  when  we  gang  back  to  the  Hielands  —  we'll 
ride  through  the  Glen  o'  Weeping,  ye  and  I  —  and  ye  shall 
hae  anither  picture  o'  it  to  think  on  after,  when  the  badges 
and  music  o'  the  Campbells  glitter  and  ring  through  the 
ruins  o'  Glencoe." 

"Jock  —  I  am  a  f ule  —  I  dinna  regret. " 

"Peggy  —  my  dear,  my  dear !" 

She  looked  up  at  him  through  the  vague  gray  light. 

"Jock!"  she  said  passionately.  "I  am  content  —  an'  no 
afraid  o'  the  living  or  the  —  dead. " 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  LIE  ACCOMPLISHED 

IT  was  toward  the  end  of    June;  the   commissioners 
had    produced  their    report  on  the    Glencoe   affair, 
yielding  to  the  public  demand  to  behold  their  conclu- 
sions before  the  pleasure  of  the  absent  King  was  taken. 
The  Estates  of  Scotland  were  considering  the  verdict  of 
Tweeddale's  commission;    the  verdict  pronouncing  in  mea- 
sured language  that  a  bloody  murder  had  been  committed 
three  years  ago  upon  the  Macdonalds  of  Glencoe,  and  that 
the  entire  cause  of  this  slaughter  rested  with  the  letters  of 
the  Master  of  Stair.   Public  excitement  flamed  high;  the 
greatest  gentleman  in  Scotland  had  been  declared  a  mur- 
derer and  as  the  details  of  his  crime  were  discussed,  there 
were  many  who  hoped  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  unpopular 
minister    hanged    in    the    Grassmarket.    The    Parliament, 
clamored  in  strong  debates,  roused  after  the  sluggish  years, 
voted  to  a  man  that  the  King's  warrant  did  not  authorize  the 
slaughter  of  the  Macdonalds. 

Then  Lord  Stair's  enemies,  in  the  ascendant,  triumphant 
carried  against  a  feeble  opposition  that  the  Glencoe  affair 
was  murder. 

The  feeling  of  the  Estates  passed  almost  beyond  control; 
the  Jacobites  and  the  Presbyterians  caused  Lord  Stair's 
letters  to  be  read  aloud  in  the  Parliament  house;  the  state- 
ments of  the  witnesses :  Ian  Macdonald,  Sandy,  his  brother, 

335 


336  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

some  of  the  surviving  clansmen,  Glenlyon,  Keppoch  and 
Glengarry,  were  discussed ;  the  story  of  the  entry  of  the  Glen 
by  treachery;  the  fortnight's  feasting  and  card  playing,  the 
Campbells'  rising  one  snowy  night  to  slay  their  hosts  in  their 
beds  and  drive  out  the  women  and  children  to  perish  on  the 
mountains,  all  the  details  of  cowardice  and  cruelty  that  gave  the 
story  its  horror  were  detailed,  canvassed  and  made  much  of. 

Captain  Hamilton  was  cited  in  vain  at  the  city  cross;  at 
the  first  hint  of  the  scandal,  he  had  fled  Edinburgh.  Tales 
that  in  contraband,  Jacobite  pamphlets  had  circled  for  three 
years,  were  now  on  the  lips  of  grave  men ;  it  was  related  how, 
with  a  generous  hospitality,  the  Macdonalds  had  received 
the  Campbells  who  had  sworn  that  they  came  in  friendliness, 
how  they  had  been  made  welcome  with  simple  pleasure; 
pathetic  pictures  were  drawn  of  a  pastoral  people,  virtuous 
and  ingenuous,  living  in  a  state  of  idyllic  innocence.  Makian 
was  described,  venerable,  beloved,  trampling  the  snows  to 
take  the  oath  and  returning  to  his  clan  at  peace  with  himself 
and  beaming  with  righteousness. 

The  trust  of  these  simple  folk  was  dwelt  upon;  how  they 
had  taken  the  bare  word  of  their  ancient  enemies  and  har- 
bored them  in  perfect  faith. 

How  should  they,  in  their  simplicity,  have  suspected 
treachery  behind  the  smile  of  the  redcoats  ? 

Dramatic  touches,  too,  were  not  lacking  to  this  plausible 
tale;  it  was  related  how  Sandy  Macdonald,  awaking  one 
night,  had  overheard  a  couple  of  the  soldiers  in  talk. 

"I  do  not  like  the  work,"  one  said. 

"Give  me  an  open  fight  —  " 

Then  Sandy  Macdonald  had  gone  to  Glenlyon  and  asked, 
in  his  innocence,  if  anything  was  intended  ? 


THE  LIE  ACCOMPLISHED  337 

Glenlyon  had  slapped  him  on  the  back,  laughing.  BWhy, 
if  there  had  been  anything  —  don't  you  think  I  should  have 
given  you  a  hint  ?" 

And  Sandy  Macdonald,  being  one  of  the  idyllic  people, 
had  no  choice  but  to  take  a  Campbell's  word  against  the 
evidence  of  his  own  senses.  And  to  add  to  it,  the  public  passion 
was  further  inflamed  by  pictures  of  Makian  and  his  wife  shot 
dead  as  they  hurried  with  wine  to  serve  their  guests,  of  babies 
lying  quartered  in  the  snow  and  women's  fingers  chopped  off 
for  the  sake  of  their  rings,  of  butchered  children  and  of  the 
blood-stained  Campbells  driving  the  flocks  and  herds  of  the 
slaughtered  people  into  Fort  William.  There  was  silence  as 
to  where  these  captured  cattle  had  originally  come  from. 

The  commissioners  had  been  sworn  to  secrecy  and  the 
inquiry  had  been  conducted  behind  closed  doors;  of  the 
actual  depositions  of  the  witnesses  few  knew  the  truth, 
but  their  tales  carefully  invented,  artfully  spread,  were  in 
every  man's  mouth  and  the  machinations  of  Lord  Stab's 
enemies  had  converted  the  necessary  execution  of  a  gang 
of  lawless  thieves  into  one  of  the  most  reviled  crimes  in  the 
annals  of  Scotland.  England  and  France  took  up  the  cry; 
Justice,  they  said,  had  suddenly  cried  aloud,  and  no  one  re- 
marked how  curiously  silent  Justice  had  been  over  some  of 
the  Macdonald's  actions. 

And  the  odium,  the  hatred,  the  scorn,  the  fury,  were 
all  directed  against  one  man,  —  Lord  Stan-. 

He,  they  said,  was  the  sole  author  of  these  abominations; 
he  had  suppressed  the  Macdonalds'  oath,  he  had,  under 
false  pretenses,  obtained  the  warrant  from  the  King,  he  had 
written  letters  breathing  blood  and  fire;  he  had  exclaimed 
when  he  heard  that  it  had  been  done : 


338  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"I  only  regret  that  any  of  the  wretches  have  escaped." 

They  had  always  hated  him;  these  men,  and  it  chimed 
well  with  their  mood  to  assume  the  part  of  avenging  justice 
and  take  a  pitying  interest  in  these  wronged  people. 

Their  enemy  had  put  himself  in  the  wrong  before  the  world ; 
they  would  see  it  to  that  he  paid  the  price. 

An  address  was  sent  to  the  King  in  which  justice  was 
demanded  and  judgment  on  the  Lord  Stair  as  the  author  of 
the  "massacre"  of  Glencoe. 

A  haughty  spectator  of  his  own  ruin,  the  Earl  of  Stair 
watched  these  events  in  silence. 

To  have  shown  himself  in  the  Parliament  would  have 
been  to  court  instant  arrest;  he  was  asked  for  no  defense 
or  vindication  and  his  pride  would  not  permit  him  to  offer 
one. 

The  King  was  in  the  Netherlands  and  no  further  action 
would  be  taken  until  his  pleasure  was  known;  but  all  Scot- 
land had  decided  that  his  judgment  must  affect  the  estate 
and  probably  the  life  of  the  disgraced  minister. 

For  his  own  sake  William  could  not  show  clemency; 
mercy  to  Lord  Stair  would  be  complicity  in  his  crime;  the 
King  dare  not,  if  he  would,  blacken  himself  to  save  his  servant. 

On  this  blue  June  afternoon,  Lord  Stair  paced  his  garden; 
a  festival  of  flowers  lying  lavishing  abroad  to  the  kisses  of  the 
sun. 

The  narrow  box-edged  paths  radiated  round  a  central 
fountain  full  of  gold  carp;  a  stone  figure  of  Hylas  rose  from 
the  water-lilies  and  poured  water  from  a  Grecian  urn,  splash- 
ing into  the  basin. 

Trees  of  box  and  yew  cut  into  the  shapes  of  peacocks 
and  Chinese  pagodas  framed  the  dark  background  to  in- 


THE  LIE  ACCOMPLISHED  339 

numerable  roses,  hollyhocks  and  bushes  of  sweet-brier. 
Leading  to  a  back  entrance  to  the  house  was  a  wide  flight 
of  steps  ending  in  a  terrace,  the  balustrade  being  white  with 
jasmine. 

Steadily  up  and  down  the  smooth  paths  walked  Lord 
Stair,  his  shadow  now  before,  now  behind  him. 

On  the  edge  of  the  fountain  sat  Lady  Stair,  feeding  the 
carp  with  cake. 

Her  wide  straw  hat  tied  with  black  velvet  under  her 
round  chin  threw  half  her  face  into  transparent  shadow; 
her  stiff  blue  lutestring  dress  embroidered  with  silver  stars, 
spread  over  the  dark  green  grass  and  glimmered  in  the  sunlight. 

Faint  clouds  floated  across  the  pearly  sky  and  lay  reflected 
among  the  water-lilies;  the  gold  fish  darted  through  the 
leaves  like  jewels  and  from  the  urn  held  by  Hylas,  sparkled 
the  clear  stream  of  water. 

It  was  perfectly  still,  far-removed  from  the  noises  of  the 
city;  now  and  then  a  little  breeze  rose  stirring  the  perfume 
from  the  roses  and  gently  bending  the  hollyhocks. 

Lord  Stair  stopped  at  last  in  his  pacing  to  and  fro,  stopped 
so  close  to  his  wife  that  his  shadow  fell  over  her  and  the 
fountain  brim. 

She  looked  up,  then  down  again  at  the  water.  "I  think  my 
ruin  is  assured,"  said  Lord  Stair  in  a  hard  voice. 

"You  have  no  trust  in  the  King  ?"  she  asked  quietly. 

He  answered  in  a  proud  bitterness : 

"The  King!  He  has  not  shown  himself  strong  enough  to 
withstand  a  faction  —  he,  the  same  as  the  others,  will  cast 
the  odium  on  me." 

Lady  Stair  again  looked  up. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  ruin  ?"  she  asked  steadily. 


340  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"That,  inadam,  is  within  the  King's  pleasure.  To  save 
himself  he  will  show  me  the  greater  severity.  You  under- 
stand ?  I  am  to  be  the  victim  flung  to  the  rage  of  a  party  - 
the  clamor  of  a  faction. "  He  paused  a  second,  gazing  over  her 
head,  then  he  struck  his  hand  down  on  his  sword-hilt. 

"It  is  hardly  credible !"  he  said. 

"If  what  they  say  is  true,  it  is  well-deserved,"  said  Lady 
Stair  evenly.  "To  your  face,  my  lord,  I  say  it;  it  is  well- 
deserved." 

He  glanced  at  her  curiously. 

"Ah  — you  think  so  ?"  he  said  in  a  contained  voice. 

"You  would  give  me  no  denial,"  she  answered.  "I  think 
what  I  must  think  —  I  conclude  what  your  silence  causes 
me  to  conclude." 

"It  is  a  matter  of  no  moment,"  said  Lord  Stair.  "Perhaps 
—  "  and  he  smiled  unpleasantly,  "it  is  as  well  that  my  down- 
fall will  at  least  give  no  one  pain." 

"Perhaps  it  is  as  well,"  she  assented  coldly.  Her  ringed 
hand  stirred  through  the  fountain  and  the  water-lilies  trem- 
bled at  her  touch;  a  low  passing  cloud  cast  a  shadow  over 
the  grass.  Lord  Stair  stood  silent  with  a  hard  and  angry  face; 
his  wife  spoke  again. 

"Yet  I  ask  you,  my  lord,  what  you  mean  by  ruin  ?" 

"Are  there,  madam,  so  many  forms  of  it  ?" 

She  lifted  her  wet  hand  and  drew  it  along  the  stone  brim 
of  the  fountain.  "I  suppose,"  she  said,  "that  His  Majesty 
must  dismiss  you  from  office  —  I  suppose.  That  is  the  least 
he  can  do  —  am  I  right  ?" 

"Yes." 

"I  suppose  —  he  might  touch  your  estate  —  your  life  — 
am  I  right?" 


THE  LIE  ACCOMPLISHED  341 

"Yes." 

"The  first,  the  least  he  could  do  would  be  generous  — 
you  think  he  will  not  choose  it?  —  again  —  am  I  right?" 

-"Yes." 

A  spot  of  bright  color  burnt  in  either  cheek  as  she  looked 
up  at  him;  in  the  shade  of  her  hat  her  eyes  shone  brightly. 

"He  will  do  the  utmost?" 

Lord  Stair  smiled. 

"Be  content,  madam,"  he  said  bitterly.  "I  think  he  will 
do  the  utmost. " 

She  caught  her  breath. 

"And  —  you  wait  ?" 

"What  else  —  yes,  I  wait. " 

Lady  Stair  rose ;  as  she  lifted  her  head  their  eyes  met. 

"So,"  she  said  very  quietly.  "You  have  given  me  that 
also  —  you  have  made  me  the  wife  of  a  disgraced,  ruined 
man,  you  have  dragged  me  into  a  hideous  downfall  of  honor 
and  estate.  We  of  my  father's  house  have  kept  clear  of  these 
things  —  I  think  I  am  the  first  to  be  linked  to  a  dishonored 
name. " 

He  stood  silent,  looking  at  her  with  an  inscrutable  ex- 
pression. 

"Reproaches  from  me  will  not  sting  you,"  continued 
Lady  Stair.  "Dear  Heaven,  what  are  we  to  one  another  ? 
I  would  have  been  spared  this,  yet  it  is  a  fitting  end  —  " 

Her  wild  eyes  lifted  and  fell ;  she  moved  a  step  away  across 
the  grass. 

Lord  Stair  spoke,  slowly : 

"You  are  free  to  do  as  you  will  —  free  as  the  servants 
I  can  no  longer  pay.  Do  what  is  in  your  mind  to  do.  No 
doubt  they  will  not  blame  you  — 


342  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Well?"  she  said. 

He  lifted  his  head  suddenly. 

"I  shall  not  ask  you  to  share  exile,  a  prison  or  death  with 
me.  I  cannot  hold  you.  I  know  it  —  only  —  " 

"Well  ?"  she  murmured  again  faintly. 

"You  said  —  just  now  —  "  he  spoke  with  difficulty,  a 
painful  distinctness,  "you  —  had  kept  clear  of  these  things 
—  you  will  remember  it  ?" 

"I  do  not  understand,"  she  answered. 

"I  think  you  do.  You  are  my  wife.  You  will  soon  be  free 
of  me,  I  think.  Until  you  are,  I  ask  your  loyalty.  That  is  all. " 

"Are  you  afraid  of  me  ?"  she  said. 

"Of  nothing."  he  answered.  "Least  of  all  of  meeting 
circumstance.  Whatever  occurs  I  can  deal  with  it. " 

There  was  a  curious  expression  on  Lady  Stair's  face. 

"You  are  very  confident,"  she  said,  "yet  you  stood  high 
and  you  fell. " 

He  smiled  at  her. 

"Madam  —  it  is  a  thing  that  may  be  done  magnificently. " 

She  stood  silent  a  while  with  averted  eyes,  then  she  stooped, 
picked  up  her  scarf  from  the  grass  and  turned  slowly  toward 
the  house. 

Lord  Stair  watched  the  blue  figure  with  the  long  shadow 
crossing  the  grass;  watched  her  as  she  mounted  the  steps, 
traversed  the  terrace  and  disappeared  into  the  house. 

The  beautiful  garden  was  strangely  desolate;  he  moved 
away  from  the  fountain  and  his  face  was  ghastly  in  the  sun- 
light. 

The  hours  were  intolerably  leaden;  he  reflected  that  he 
was  a  free  man  only  till  his  enemies  had  the  authority  for 
his  arrest;  restlessness  and  the  desire  to  use  his  liberty  while 


THE  LIE  ACCOMPLISHED  343 

he  might  made  him  leave  the  garden  and  call  for  his  horse. 
As  he  passed  out  again  he  saw  through  an  open  door 
Lady  Stair  sitting  idly  with  her  hands  in  her  lap;  he  did  not 
speak  to  her  nor  turn  his  head:  but  descended  to  the  court 
and  rode  away  through  Edinburgh  to  the  open  country,  and 
there  at  a  full  gallop  took  the  summer  wind  across  his  face. 


CHAPTER  V 
A  WOMAN'S  VICTORY 

TWILIGHT  was  gathering  as  Lord  Stair  rode  back 
into  Edinburgh;  the  city  lights  glimmered  through 
1  purple  haze  as  the  June  evening  deepened  and 
above  the  castle  that  stood  black  against  the  sky 
hung  the  first  star. 

Lord  Stair  was  riding  slowly  from  the  gate  when  he  had 
to  draw  aside  to  admit  the  passage  of  a  coach  and  four; 
as  it  swept  rattling  along  the  narrow  street  he  recognized  the 
silver  and  murrey  of  Lord  Wharton's  liveries. 

Evidently  my  lord  was  returning  to  London;  the  Earl 
glanced  after  the  coach  with  a  strange  satisfaction  and 
smiled  to  himself  as  he  noted  that  the  blinds  were  drawn. 
Lord  Wharton  was  likely  to  be  afraid  of  the  night  air;  he 
pictured  him  with  his  hands  in  a  muff  seated  on  cushions  as 
the  coach  swung  through  the  open  gates  onto  the  country 
road. 

Lord  Stair  went  on  his  way;  there  were  many  people 
about,  some  excitement  or  uneasiness  appeared  to  be  abroad ; 
he  wondered  grimly  if  the  messenger  from  the  King  had  ar- 
rived and  if  these  churls  mouthed  his  news  already. 

No  one  recognized  him  in  his  plain  riding-gear;  he  pulled 
his  beaver  further  over  his  eyes  and  turned  into  the  main 
street ;  here  the  crowd  was  denser ;  many  were  armed ;  he 
touched  up  his  tired  horse  and  was  breaking  into  a  trot 

344 


A  WOMAN'S  VICTORY  345 

when  a  girl  stepped  out  from  the  passers-by  and  put  her  hand 
forcibly  on  his  rein. 

"Lord  Stair !"  she  said  in  a  quick  whisper. 

He  stopped,  looked  down. 

"Lord   Stair  —  dinna   gang   name!"   she   said   earnestly. 

He  leaned  from  the  saddle  to  catch  her  whisper.  "You  know 
me  ?"  he  asked  easily. 

She  nodded. 

"I  hae  seen  ye  ride  frae  the  Parliament,  Lord  Stair,  — 
dinna  gang  hame  to-nicht!" 

"Why,  mistress  ?" 

Her  eyes  glowed  in  the  shadow  of  her  hood. 

"They're  ganging  to  burn  yer  house,  Lord  Stair  —  to- 
nicht  —  I  ken  it  a'  for  ma  ain  Sandy  is  in  it  —  sae  —  dinna 
gang  hame!" 

She  dropped  her  hand,  trembling  with  excitement. 

"Ye  canna  save  yer  house,  yet  ye  can  save  yer  life. " 

He  drew  himself  erect  in  his  saddle  and  looked  in  the 
direction  of  his  home. 

"This  is  Tweeddale's  and  Johnstone's  setting  on." 

"Ay,  Lord  Stair  —  and  the  mob  will  make  for  yer  life. " 

"I  will  go  and  demand  soldiers. " 

"It  willna'  serve,  Lord  Stair  —  they  are  a'  in  league  wi* 
the  mob." 

He  knew  very  well  that  her  words  were  true.  "Thank  you, 
mistress,"  he  said  with  a  sudden  smile.  "But  I  must  go  home 
—  and  quickly.  I  should  never  have  left  the  house  —  I  did 
not  guess  at  this. " 

"Why,  Lord  Stair  ?  Why  must  ye  gang  hame  ?" 

"Because  of  the  Countess :  she  is  alone.  Thank  you  again, 
mistress. " 


346  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

He  lifted  his  hat  for  a  second  and  then  turned  rapidly 
down  the  street. 

So  it  had  come  to  this :  often  had  he  been  face  to  face  witli 
popular  wrath;  often  had  he  dared  and  flouted  the  whole 
of  Scotland  and  now  the  crash  had  come.  He  glanced  down  at 
the  people  he  rode  through  and  his  soul  shook  to  think  that 
he  should  have  come  to  be  at  their  mercy.  His  mansion  was 
in  complete  darkness  as  he  rode  into  the  courtyard;  it  was 
with  a  sense  of  relief  that  he  noticed  the  empty  streets  before 
it,  the  mob  had  not  gathered  yet. 

No  servant  came  forward  to  take  his  horse;  he  left  the 
tired  animal  and  entered  the  house. 

One  of  the  footmen  stood  in  the  hall,  looking  pale  and 
frightened. 

"Are  you  the  only  one  ? "  said  Lord  Stair. 

The  man  assented  in  a  cowed  manner. 

"Melville  —  has  Melville  gone  ?" 

"Yes,  my  lord  —  we  heard  there  was  a  design  to 
burn  the  house.  Mr.  Melville  went  and  the  others,  my 
lord." 

"I  think  the  information  was  correct,"  said  Lord  Stair 
quietly.  "You  had  better  follow.  Only  first  there  are  the  horses. 
My  own  is  outside  —  take  him  and  the  others  to  the  old 
stables  at  the  end  of  the  garden.  I  think  they  will  be  safe  there. 
Let  me  know  that  it  is  done  and  you  shall  be  rewarded." 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

Lord  Stair  was  moving  down  the  shadows  of  the  hall 
when  the  man  called  after  him : 

"There  is  a  lady  waiting  for  you  in  the  drawing-room, 
my  lord.  She  would  not  be  denied." 

"Waiting  for  me  ?" 


A  WOMAN'S  VICTORY  347 

The  Earl  paused  on  the  first  stair  and  looked  back  through 
the  darkness  at  the  speaker. 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"Her  name?" 

"My  lord,  she  gave  none." 

Lord  Stair  was  silent  a  moment.  "Where  is  the  Countess  ?" 
he  asked. 

The  man  did  not  answer. 

"Where  is  she?" 

"My  lord,  my  lord." 

At  the  tone,  the  exclamation,  the  Earl  gave  a  little 
start. 

"She  is  in  the  house,"  he  said  sharply. 

Slowly,  reluctantly,  came  the  reply. 

"No,  my  lord." 

And  as  the  man  spoke  he  saw  the  Earl  put  his  hand  out 
swiftly  and  catch  hold  of  the  banisters. 

"When  did  she  go  ?"  came  through  the  shadows  and  Lord 
Stair's  voice  shook  a  little. 

"Soon  after  Mr.  Melville,  my  lord;  when  she  heard  they 
meant  to  burn  the  house,  my  lady  put  on  her  hat  and  had  her 
mare  saddled  and  rode  away." 

"Leaving  no  message  ?" 

"None,  my  lord." 

A  pause  while  the  shadows  seemed  to  thicken,  blotting 
out  all  traces  of  light;  then  Lord  Stair  spoke,  quietly: 

"That  will  do.  Go  and  look  to  the  horses. " 

The  man  obeyed,  disappearing  quickly,  and  Lord  Stair 
ascended  the  gloomy  stairs  of  his  deserted  house. 

Groping  aimlessly  through  the  darkness  he  pushed  open 
the  first  door  he  came  to  and  flung  himself  into  a  chair. 


348  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

So  —  his  wife  had  gone  —  he  had  never  expected  it, 
like  this,  so  brutally. 

He  remembered  Lord  Wharton's  coach  and  the  closed 
blinds  and  cursed  himself  for  a  fool  that  he  had  smiled  — 
why  had  not  some  devil's  whisper  prompted  him  to  send  a 
bullet  through  those  deceitful  windows  and  kill  the  two 
that  rode  within  ? 

And  she  had  talked  of    her  honorable    house!    It  was 
part  of  her  woman's  cunning  —  that  he  might  leave  her  - 
safely  trusting  her  cold  dignity ! 

He  started  up  with  some  wild  idea  of  following  them, 
but  by  now  they  would  be  miles  on  the  road;  he  did  not 
doubt  that  one  day  he  would  kill  Tom  Wharton;  but  to- 
night it  was  madness;  he  was  deserted  and  alone,  still  he 
had  himself  at  least  in  hand  to  face  whatever  came. 

Yet  the  next  instant  his  impulse  was  to  ride  after  them 
at  any  cost,  at  any  price.  She  might  have  waited !  A  dull 
agony  came  over  him,  he  dropped  his  head  on  his  out- 
spread arms  and  the  dark  glimmered  with  horror. 

The  curse!  To  the  last  shame  and  misery  it  was  being 
meted  out  —  an  accursed  race  —  accursed. 

The  word  beat  in  his  brain  like  a  drum  to  execution. 

Accursed,  abhorred;  great  and  famous  as  he  had  been 
but  yesterday,  there  was  not  one  who  would  stay  to  help 
him  meet  this  moment  now. 

He  was  used  to  standing  alone;  he  had  an  immeasurable 
courage,  yet  his  wife's  defection  had  robbed  him  of  half 
his  strength. 

Let  her  only  have  waited  a  little  longer  —  possibly  a  few 
poor  hours  longer  and  she  might  have  been  free  indeed. 

He  rose  up  blindly  and  felt  for  his  sword.  It  was  completely 


A  WOMAN'S  VICTORY  349 

dark,  only  the  long  window  glimmered  ghostly  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room.  As  he  moved  he  knocked  a  table  over  and  there 
was  a  crash  of  china  as  the  vases  struck  the  floor,  he  paused, 
leaning  against  the  wall  with  his  hand  to  his  sick  head. 

The  room  opened  into  the  drawing-room  by  folding- 
doors;  it  seemed,  as  if,  in  that  other  chamber,  some  one 
was  moving,  some  one  roused  by  the  falling  table. 

Suddenly  a  candle  appeared  like  a  star  in  the  distance, 
coming  nearer  through  the  dark.  His  blood  leaped  for  a 
moment;  it  might  be  that  she  had  not  gone  —  it  might  be 
that  she  had  returned. 

"Ulrica!"  he  cried  hoarsely,  "Ulrica!" 

But  now  the  candle  cast  a  glow  on  the  person  carrying 
it;  a  woman,  but  too  tall  and  stately  for  Lady  Stair. 

She  came  to  the  open  doors  and  stopped;  her  light  gray 
dress  appeared  luminous  against  the  darkness,  and  a  black 
hood  was  pushed  back  from  her  pale,  set  face. 

She  held  the  candle  in  a  hand  so  trembling  that  the  flame 
wavered  and  the  wax  dripped  over  her  dress. 

"Is  it  you,  Lord  Stair  ?"  she  said  faintly.  "Is  it  you  ?" 

In  an  instant  he  knew  her;  in  an  instant  it  was  all  plain 

to  him,  as  the  key  to  the  cipher  she  explained  everything; 

his  secret  enemy,  the  one  who  had  worked  his  ruin  in  the  dark 

—  he  heard  her  words  of  three  years  ago  as  if  she  spoke  them 

now. 

"If  you  push  me  too  far  I  may  pull  your  fortunes  about 
your  feet. " 

He  moved  into  the  center  of  the  room. 

"Delia,"  he  said,  "Delia." 

She  shrank  back. 

"Do  you  know  me,  Lord  Stair  ?" 


350  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"I  know  you  —  and  —  now,  what  you  have  done." 

The  candle  only  faintly  dispelled  the  thunderous  summer 
dark;  crossing  the  threshold  she  stood  it  on  the  chimneypiece, 
where  its  double  shone  from  the  mirror,  a  dim  ghost.  Lord 
Stair's  figure  showed  obscurely  with  a  trailing  black  shadow 
behind  it. 

"Why  have  you  come  ?"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

With  one  hand  on  the  chimneypiece  and  her  face  show- 
ing in  the  flickering  candle-light,  Delia  spoke  in  a  quiet 
shuddering  manner. 

"As  your  downfall  has  been  coming  —  slowly,  Lord 
Stair,  have  you  never  thought  of  me  ?  As  Glencoe  has  been 
dragged  to  light  —  slowly  —  have  you  never  thought  of  me  ? 
As  your  enemies  have  risen  around  you  with  this  forged  tale 
to  dishonor  you  —  have  you  not  thought  of  me  ?  As  you 
have  heard  of  witnesses  suborned,  of  cunning  lies  to  dis- 
place you,  have  you  never  thought  of  me  ?" 

He  stood  immovable. 

"I  have  thought  of  you.  Yet  I  did  not  think  this  was  your 
work." 

"No  —  you  would  not,  Lord  Stair  —  yet  from  the  first 
whisper  to  the  consummation  it  is  my  work  —  day  and  night 
for  three  weary  years  I  have  given  body  and  soul  to  this  end 
and  now  I  think  I  can  say  —  I  have  avenged  my  dead. " 

Her  voice  had  no  ring  of  triumph  in  it;  on  her  last  word 
it  fell  to  a  sob;  she  leaned  back  against  the  wall  and  her  head 
fell  forward  on  her  bosom. 

Lord  Stair  came  a  step  nearer. 

"So  —  you  set  yourself  to  ruin  me  ?" 

"Yes,  I." 

"From  you  sprang  the  tale  of  Glencoe  ?" 


A  WOMAN'S  VICTORY  351 

"Yes,  from  me." 

"You  caused  the  Macdonalds  to  bear  false  witness  ?" 

"I  have  been  at  the  bottom  of  it  all,  Lord  Stair." 

She  raised  her  head. 

"I  have  put  that  upon  you  you  will  never  be  free  of,"  she 
said  wildly.  "Throughout  the  world  your  name  is  stained 
with  the  blood  of  Glencoe.  Nothing  can  efface  what  I  have 
done." 

He  moved  still  closer. 

"Women  are  marvelous,"  he  said  curiously.  "I  did  not 
think  that  you  so  hated  me. " 

He  took  her  by  the  shoulder  and  looked  into  her  shrinking 
face. 

"I  did  not  think  that  you  so  hated  me,"  he  repeated. 

"Have  I  not  cause  to  hate  you,  Lord  Stair  ?"  she  demanded 
hoarsely.  "I  swore  that  as  you  had  been  false,  cruel  and 
merciless,  that  even  as  that  dear  blood  cried  out  to  me  — 
you  should  pay  to  the  last  bitterness. " 

His  hand  fell  from  her  shoulder. 

"Why  have  you  come  here  now  ?" 

She  moved  away  blindly  through  the  shadows,  her  hands 
clenched  tight  on  her  bosom. 

"Have  they  all  gone,  Lord  Stair  —  all  ?" 

"Yes  —  they  are  lackeys. " 

"And  your  wife  ?"  said  Delia  suddenly. 

His  utter  silence  answered  her;  she  turned  about  in  a 
strange  and  desperate  manner. 

"Is  not  your  wife  here  ?" 

"Do  not  push  me,  mistress,"  he  answered  thickly.  "My 
affairs  will  bear  no  meddling. " 

Delia  cried  out  passionately : 


352  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Poor  coward  —  so  she  could  not  be  loyal  to  the  last  — 
she  knew  perhaps  what  I  am  come  to  tell  you  —  that  to- 
night the  mob  are  coming  here. " 

"What  you  came  to  tell  me  ?"  he  exclaimed. 

She  crushed  her  hands  together  in  a  helpless  manner. 

"They  mean  to  kill  you  I  think  —  Johnstone  is  setting 
them  on  —  O  God  in  Heaven!" 

She  turned  to  the  mantelpiece  and  pressed  her  forehead 
against  the  marble  slab;  her  hood  had  fallen  back,  and  the 
candle-light  flickered  over  the  soft  hazel  curls. 

Lord  Stair  was  watching  her. 

"Your  three  years'  work  is  accomplished,"  he  said.  "You 
came  to  tell  me  so  ?" 

She  was  silent;  her  head  drooped  lower  on  the  mantelshelf. 

"You  came  to  tell  me  so,"  he  demanded.  "You  came 
to  triumph,  Mistress  Featherstonehaugh  ?" 

He  smiled  faintly  as  he  looked  at  her;  she  started  at  the 
name  he  used. 

"I  am  Captain  Campbell's  wife,"  she  said.  "Glenlyon's 
wife  these  two  years. " 

There  was  an  almost  imperceptible  pause  before  he  an- 
swered. 

"That  accounts  for  another  false  witness,  Mistress  Camp- 
bell." 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,   "yes." 

"He  has  lied  to  please  you  ?" 

"What  else?" 

"You  married  Glenlyon  that  you  might  bend  him  to  serve 
you  now  ? " 

This  time  she  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him  with  wild 
eyes. 


A  WOMAN'S  VICTORY  353 

"Yes." 

"You  have  not  stopped  at  anything  to  attain  this  end," 
said  Lord  Stair.  "Madam,  you  should  be  more  triumphant 
now  that  it  is  gained." 

She  advanced  a  step  toward  him. 

"Yea,  I  am  clear  of  my  vow,"  she  said  in  a  distracted 
manner.  "I  think  they  lie  quiet  in  their  graves  —  I  have 
done  it  —  the  blood  of  Glencoe  —  it  is  on  you  —  always. " 

She  sank  into  a  chair,  leaning  forward  over  the  arm  staring 
across  the  dusk  as  if  she  saw  something  menacing  her.  Lord 
Stair  picked  up  the  candle  and  flashed  it  before  her  face. 

"Why  have  you  come  here  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  behind  the  candle  flame,  and  for  the 
first  time  saw  his  face  clearly;  their  glance  met. 

"Oh,  you  are  changed!"  she  said  in  a  terrified  tone. 

"And  you  also,"  he  answered  somberly. 

With  a  wild  little  laugh  she  bent  nearer  into  the  circle  of 
light. 

"I  have  dreamt  we  might  meet  like  this  —  through  the  dark 
—  both  so  different. " 

Her  words  trailed  off,  she  put  out  her  hands. 

"Take  away  the  light  —  I  cannot  look  at  you. " 

She  slipped  from  the  chair  to  her  knees. 

"What  have  I  done  —  what  have  I  done !" 

"Why,  you  should  know  —  you  have  done  what  you  set  out 
to  do." 

In  a  tone  of  numb  despair  she  repeated:  "What  have  I 
done  —  what  have  I  done  ? " 

Lord  Stair  set  the  candle  on  the  table. 

"You  had  better  go,  Mistress  Campbell  —  and  join  your 
allies  who  come  to  burn  my  house. " 


354  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"I  caine  because  of  that,"  she  answered  wildly.  "I  came 
to  warn  you  —  my  courage  failed  —  I  could  not  let  it  happen. " 

On  her  knees,  with  her  hands  clasped  on  her  bosom  and 
her  head  bent,  she  leaned  against  the  chair,  heavily. 

Lord  Stair  turned  to  her  with  a  swift  fierceness. 

"This  is  a  woman's  paltriness,"  he  cried.  "To  do  the 
thing  and  lament  it  —  I  had  liked  you  better  if  you  had 
led  the  mob  you  have  incited  instead  of  this  — 

"I  would  not  have  them  kill  you,"  she  murmured. 

"Oh,  get  up  from  your  knees,"  he  said,  scornful.  "You  are 
true  neither  to  your  love  nor  to  your  hate !  Get  back  to  your 
kind  and  carry  through  what  you  have  begun. " 

There  was  a  confused  distant  sound  without. 

"They  are  coming!"  shrieked  Delia. 

"Well,  you  knew  it,"  he  smiled:  "Go  you  and  join  them." 

She  rose  to  her  feet;  the  noises,  the  shouts  and  the  steady 
tramping  were  coming  nearer. 

"And  I  have  done  this,"  whispered  Delia.  "What  did 
you  mean  —  true  to  neither  love  nor  hate  ?" 

"Look  into  your  heart,"  he  answered.  "Was  it  love  that 
made  you  pull  me  down  —  was  it  hate  that  sent  you  here 
to-night  ?" 

She  caught  at  the  chair  with  cold  fingers. 

"I  have  made  my  affections  stronger  than  my  love  —  I 
have  put  honor  and  loyalty  above  my  heart  —  and  I  came  to- 
night because  my  soul  turned  weak  as  water  to  think  of  your 
death." 

She  paused ;  her  breathing  came  with  difficulty. 

"Will  you  not  go,  Lord  Stair  ?" 

He  had  gone  toward  the  window;  a  vast  crowd  were 
gathering  without,  the  red  light  of  torches  flickered  across 


A  WOMAN'S  VICTORY  355 

the  courtyard,  and  threw  into  view  faces  here  and  there  in 
the  sea  of  people. 

The  door  was  suddenly  burst  open  and  the  solitary  ser- 
vant rushed  in. 

"My  lord,  my  lord!  they  are  certainly  going  to  destroy 
us !  They  have  gunpowder  with  them. " 

"Save  yourself,"  interrupted  Lord  Stair,  —  he  took  a 
purse  from  his  pocket  and  tossed  it  across  the  room. 

The  man  groped  for  it  in  the  shadows. 

"There  is  Lumley's,  the  jewelers  in  the  Cannon  Gate  my 
lord  —  he  is  under  great  obligations  to  your  lordship  — 
if  you  would  take  shelter  there." 

"You  are  a  good  fellow,"  said  the  Earl.  "Go  to  Lumley  — 
I  may  follow  —  the  horses  are  in  safety  ?" 

"My  lord,  yes." 

The  man  hesitated  at  the  door. 

"Your  lordship  will  not  try  to  save  some  of  the  things  — 
papers  —  or  plate  —  ?" 

Lord  Stair  laughed,  a  fierce  sound  through  the  darkness: 

"No  —  nothing.  What  value  is  any  of  this  to  me  compared 
to  what  I  have  already  lost  ?  Get  you  gone. " 

The  servant  withdrew  and  the  Earl  turned  swiftly  to 
Delia. 

"And  you  mistress,  go  and  join  your  people  without  — 
do  you  not  hear  them  shouting  ?  Go  and  add  your  voice 
to  those  cursing  the  Dalrymples  —  and  be  content  —  for  to- 
night all  curses  are  fulfilled. " 

She  moved  slowly  nearer  to  him. 

"And  what  is  your  thought  of  me,  Lord  Stair  ?" 

He  made  an  imperious  gesture  as  if  he  would  have  swept 
her  intruding  presence  aside. 


356  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"I  have  no  thought  at  all  for  you. " 

He  stopped,  listening;  from  the  confusion  of  sounds 
without  arose  the  crackling  of  flames;  he  went  to  the  win- 
dow; fagots  and  gunpowder  had  been  piled  in  the  court 
and  flaming  tarred  torches  flung  into  the  midst;  red  lights 
began  to  dance  in  reflections  over  the  floor;  and  smoke 
swept  in  faint  clouds  past  the  windows.  Lord  Stair  felt  a 
cold  hand  touch  his  and  turned  to  look  into  the  face  of  Delia. 

"For  God's  sake,"  she  whispered,  "for  pity's  sake." 

He  made  an  impatient  attempt  to  shake  her  off,  but  she 
clung  to  his  hand  desperately  in  a  frenzy  of  entreaty. 

"It  is  burning  —  don't  you  see  that  it  is  burning  —  make 
haste  —  at  the  back  through  the  garden. " 

The  triumphant  shout  of  the  crowd  as  they  saw  the  flames 
rise  almost  drowned  her  voice;  an  unnatural  red  glare  blind- 
ing, horrible,  filled  the  room  from  end  to  end. 

Lord  Stair  glanced  round. 

"Your  work,  mistress,  your  work,"  he  wrenched  himself 
free  of  her.  "Go  without  there  yonder  and  laugh  at  it. " 

She  was  crying  and  sobbing  like  a  mad  woman. 

"What  have  I  done  —  I   have  been   crazy  —  crazy  — 

With  fallen  hair  and  the  red  light  over  her  from  head 
to  foot,  she  ran  to  the  door;  he  followed.  The  door  was 
burning,  the  oak  stair  threatened;  flames  were  already 
showing  in  the  hall. 

Delia  wrung  her  hands,  shrieking  and  moaning  to  her- 
self, calling  on  the  living  and  the  dead  in  her  distraction; 
she  ran  a  little  way  down  the  wide  stairs,  then  at  sight  of 
the  flaming  door  fell  back  with  a  scream. 

"Ye  should  not  have  come, "  said  Lord  Stair. 

"Your  place  is  with  those  who  lit  the  fire. " 


A  WOMAN'S  VICTORY  357 

Her  wild  eyes  lifted  to  his  figure. 

"Do  you  think  I  am  afraid  for  myself?"  she  cried.  She 
came  back  to  him  with  outstretched  hands  and  thrown  back 
head;  as  she  stood  there,  poised  above  the  smoking  hallway 
with  the  flickering  light  and  shade  across  her  distorted  face, 
she  seemed  as  unearthly,  as  terribly  strange  as  her  surround- 
ings. 

Lord  Stair,  gazing  at  her,  saw  the  look  in  her  eyes  he 
had  seen  in  his  sister's  and  in  his  own;  it  was  as  if  there 
fronted  him  the  evil  genius  of  his  house;  once  this  woman 
had  looked  at  him  differently;  as  he  stared  at  her  he  recalled 
that  other  expression,  the  other  look  her  brown  eyes  had 
once  held  in  place  of  the  madness  that  flashed  in  them  now. 

Certainly,  she  was  mad;  he  saw  her  against  the  back- 
ground of  the  polished  stairway  where  the  flames  were  re- 
flected; he  saw  her  lean  back  against  the  balustrade  with 
those  wild  eyes  upon  him  in  her  uplifted  face;  he  noticed  the 
crimson  light  on  the  long  line  of  her  throat  and  in  the  curve 
of  her  white  lips. 

"Lord  Stair." 

She  bent  forward,  touched  him,  the  hideous  noise  of 
flames  gaining  power,  the  shouting  and  cracking  of  timbers 
filled  the  air  with  a  terrible  menace. 

"Lord  Stair." 

Her  fingers  touched  his  arm,  closed  round;  and  he  could 
not  escape  from  her  face,  turn  his  eyes  away. 

"Speak  to  me,"  she  said;  she  was  as  calm  as  she  had  been 
frantic;  her  long  hair,  loosened,  glowed  a  dusky  red  behind 
her  marble  white  face.  But  he  thought  of  his  wife  and  would 
not. 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you." 


358  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

He  caught  hold  of  her,  not  tenderly  nor  roughly,  indiffer- 
ent, merely. 

"Make  haste  —  down  the  stairs,"  he  said.  "On  the  first 
landing  you  may  cross  the  library  and  gain  the  garden." 

The  grasp  tightened  on  her  arm. 

"Come,"  he  commanded,  and  drew  her  after  him,  leading 
the  way. 

She  did  not  speak  until  he  paused  to  open  the  library 
door,  then  she  looked  back  into  the  flame-lit  hall  and  cried 
out  she  would  die. 

Paying  no  heed  he  was  dragging  her  into  the  dark  room 
when  something  rushed  out  of  the  door,  between  them  and  up 
the  stair. 

"What  was  that  ?"  cried  Lord  Stair;  he  let  go  his  hold  upon 
the  woman  and  stepped  back. 

Half-way  up  the  stairs  a  little  black  cat  peered  through 
the  oaken  rails  with  ears  cocked  and  its  green  eyes  glittering 
with  excitement;  round  its  neck  was  a  tumbled  bow  of  scarlet. 

For  a  moment  the  man  and  the  animal  gazed  at  each 
other,  then  the  Earl  began  reascending  the  stairs. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  cried  Delia,  barring  his  way. 
"You  are  not  going  back  ?  My  God !  Look  how  the  flames  are 
mounting  —  they  will  cut  off  your  escape. " 

Lord  Stair  looked  up  at  the  kitten. 

"It  is  alive,"  he  said,  "and  I  cannot  let  it  burn." 

"You  are  mad !"  shrieked  Delia,  clinging  to  him.  "The 
house  has  only  a  few  minutes  to  stand  —  they  have  gun- 
powder. " 

He  pushed  her  aside. 

"Then  get  you  into  the  garden,"  he  answered,  pointing 
to  the  library  door.  "There  is  time  for  that. " 


A  WOMAN'S  VICTORY  359 

"Will  you  leave  me  ?  Will  you  go  to  your  death  ?" 

"My  life  is  of  no  moment,"  he  said  grimly,  "I  shall  not 
leave  mourners  —  " 

She  caught  hold  of  him  anew. 

"I  love  you,  I  love  you,  and  you  shall  not  leave  me.  I  love 
you  —  I  love  you. " 

He  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"  'Tis  a  strange  affection,  mistress  —  it  has  done  the 
work  of  hate  —  let  go  of  me. " 

He  twisted  his  arm  free  of  her,  his  eyes  shone  curiously. 

"I  love  you,"  she  whispered  in  bitter  agony  and  fell  back 
against  the  wall.  With  no  look  at  her  he  mounted  the 
stairs;  she  shrieked  after  him,  called  and  cried.  He  stopped 
and  looked  down,  she  was  standing  as  he  had  left  her,  half 
within  the  library  door,  her  way  of  escape  was  clear  behind  her. 

The  little  cat  fled  at  his  approach  and  galloped  ahead 
of  him. 

He  followed  it  almost  to  the  top  of  the  house  across  a 
landing  and  through  an  open  door.  By  the  red  light  from 
without  he  could  distinctly  see  this  room  and  all  that  it 
contained. 

It  was  his  wife's  bed-chamber,  it  looked  as  if  she  had  that 
moment  left  it;  by  a  chair  stood  her  high-heeled  house  shoes, 
and  the  garden  hat  she  had  worn  that  morning ;  her  dressing- 
table  was  covered  with  trinkets,  evidently  she  had  taken 
nothing  with  her. 

He  gazed  strangely  about  the  room;  a  little  drawing 
caught  his  eye;  he  knew  it  well,  Samuel  Cooper's  portrait 
of  his  dead  son ;  he  went  up  to  it  and  took  it  from  the  wall. 

She  had  left  it  behind,  she  was  Harry's  mother  and  she 
had  done  this  hideous  thing. 


360  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

As  he  stood  in  her  deserted  room  among  the  details  re- 
dolent of  her,  he  could  think  of  nothing  but  this,  the  bitter- 
ness of  the  thing  she  had  done;  he  forgot  why  he  had  come 
here,  he  forgot  the  burning  house  and  Delia,  heavily  he  sat 
down  with  the  picture  in  his  hand  and  gazed  round  the 
emptiness. 

Irremediable  as  death  and  more  terrible  was  this  ac- 
tion of  hers;  he  tried  to  adjust  his  mind  to  the  difference 
it  must  make  to  his  life.  Then  he  considered  that  it  was 
not  life  but  death  ahead  of  them.  Confusion  was  over  him, 
he  could  not  think  clearly;  he  rested  his  head  against 
his  arm  and  groaned  aloud,  then  the  image  of  Tom 
Wharton  flashed  through  his  agony  and  he  rose  with  a  bitter 
curse. 

He  slipped  the  picture  into  his  pocket;  where  were  they 
now  ?  On  the  road  to  London  —  London.  Something  soft 
brushed  against  him,  and  he  mechanically  glanced  down. 

It  was  the  black  cat. 

He  remembered  now  why  he  had  come  and  laughed  weakly 
at  his  own  folly  as  he  caught  up  the  kitten  and  thrust  it 
inside  his  waistcoat. 

Somehow,  hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  he  stumbled  to  the 
door. 

Smoke  was  now  rising  up  the  stairs;  he  felt  the  air  heavy 
and  stifling.  In  a  confused  way  he  thought  of  Delia,  of  how 
he  had  last  seen  her  standing  by  the  library  door  and  what 
she  had  said. 

As  he  descended  into  the  smoke  and  glare  he  thought 
that  he  heard  her  again,  calling  after  him,  shrieking: 

"Lord  Stair!  I  love  you!" 

He  imagined  that  he  saw  her  running  up  the  stairs  toward 


A  WOMAN'S  VICTORY  361 

him  with  her  hair  flaming  behind  her  and  her  hands  out- 
thrown;  he  felt  again  her  fingers  on  his  wrist  and  gazed 
into  her  haunting  face,  and  then  it  seemed  that  it  was 
not  Delia,  but  Janet  in  her  night-dress  with  a  ghastly 
smile  on  her  face  and  a  ghastly  smear  on  her  arm;  then 
again  it  was  his  wife  with  a  face  full  of  loathing,  spurning 
him  bitterly. 

With  one  hand  over  the  black  cat,  he  made  his  way  down 
to  the  library  door. 

The  flames  had  reached  it;  he  looked  on  an  utter  ruin; 
part  of  the  outer  wall  had  fallen  and  the  fire  roared  and  hissed 
through  the  black  gaps  of  the  masonary  louder  than  the  yells 
of  the  triumphant  mob. 

And  there  between  the  door  and  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
lay  Delia,  face  downwards. 

He  cried  out  to  her  hoarsely;  the  flames  were  curling  round 
the  edge  of  her  dress;  he  beat  them  out  and  dragged  her  up; 
there  was  a  mark  like  a  purple  stain  on  her  forehead ;  she  had 
been  struck  down  by  some  falling  wood., 

He  pulled  her  to  her  feet;  she  hung  unconscious  over  his 
arm;  the  house  was  crashing  about  them  and  the  strength- 
ening flames  rippled  and  sang  as  they  leaped  upwards.  With 
the  strength  of  desperation  he  dragged  her  to  the  library 
window  and  there  laid  her  down  while  he  flung  aside  the  en- 
cumbrances of  his  coat,  sword  and  peruke. 

The  terrace  was  still  clear  though  it  glowed  brightly  in 
the  light  of  the  flames,  and  the  garden  was  illumined  from 
end  to  end. 

Delia  moaned  and  sat  up;  he  helped  her  to  her  feet;  she 
leaned  heavily  against  him  while  he  unfastened  the  long  win- 
dows. With  difficulty  he  got  her  across  the  terrace  and  down 


362  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

the  gardens,  and  heard  the  mob  as  if  it  saw  them;  she  was 
slipping  into  insensibility  again;  feebly  she  clung  to  him, 
impeding  his  progress,  and  when  they  reached  the  fountain 
of  Hylas  she  fell  forward  heavily  in  his  arms. 

He  looked  down  at  her  in  a  kind  of  cold  fury.  Behind 
him  was  his  burning  home;  he  saw  before  him  a  ruined  life; 
he  thought  of  Lady  Stair  —  her  work  —  all  of  it  her  work. 

By  the  dead  weight  of  her  body  he  knew  her  unconscious; 
he  let  her  slip  to  the  grass  and  turned  to  face  the  burning 
mansion  behind  him. 

The  flames  rose  through  the  summer  night  magnificently 
terrible;  the  whole  sky  was  alight  with  them ;  they  blotted  out 
the  stars.  And  she,  lying  quiet  enough  at  his  feet  now,  —  she 
had  done  it. 

"My  lord,"  came  a  timid  voice.  "My  lord." 

The  servant  who  had  remained  came  forward  from  the 
shadows  of  the  trees. 

"My  lord,"  he  cried  again,  startled  at  his  master's  ap- 
pearance and  the  woman  huddled  on  the  grass. 

The  Earl  stared  at  him  vacantly. 

"Why  did  you  stay?" 

"I  did  not  think  that  they  could  enter  the  garden,  my 
lord,  and  I  waited  for  your  lordship  —  escape  is  easy,  my 
lord,  by  the  lane  beyond  the  stables." 

Lord  Stair  put  his  hand  to  his  head. 

"Can  you  get  this  woman  to  Lumley's  ?" 

"There  are  the  horses,  my  lord  —  if  we  could  carry 
her." 

Lord  Stair  was  gazing  at  his  house,  flaring,  flaming  into 
the  sky.  He  turned  and  helped  the  man  to  carry  Delia  down 
the  garden. 


A  WOMAN'S  VICTORY  363 

"Put  her  on  one  horse,  mount  behind.  Take  with  you  a 
couple  of  the  others. " 

"Ah,  my  lord,  quick.  I  see  figures  entering  the  garden. " 

Lord  Stair  motioned  to  the  man  to  begone. 

"Go, ahead  and  acquaint  Lumley  of  my  approach." 


CHAPTER  VI 
"THERE  WAS  NO  MASSACRE  IN  GLENCOE" 

IN  the   back   parlor  of   Lumley's  shop  in   the  Cannon 
Gate,  Lord  Stair  sat  with   his  elbows  on   the  table, 
smoking  a  long  clay-pipe. 
Along  the  oak  settle  which  was  drawn  up  close  to 
the  fire  lay  Delia  with  her  head  motionless  on  a  pile  of  brilliant 
cushions  and  her  hands  slackly  clasped  on  her  bosom. 

For  her  pallor  and  her  stillness  she  might  have  been  of 
marble,  but  now  and  then  she  moaned  a  little  and  her  breast 
rose  with  her  troubled  breath. 

Sweeping  the  great  bruise  on  her  temple  the  long  hazel 
curls  fell  straightly  to  the  floor  and  glimmered  in  the  firelight. 

It  was  a  little  room  hung  with  thick  and  very  rich  stamped 
leather  and  containing  the  choicest  of  Lumley's  stock  as 
silversmith  and  jeweler;  on  the  wide  mantelshelf  stood  a 
full-rigged  ship  in  beaten  gold,  a  great  crystal  glowing  at 
the  poop;  either  side  of  this  were  two  bloodstone  candle- 
sticks finely  set  in  silver. 

A  handsome  walnut  sideboard  held  goblets  and  vessels 
of  all  sizes  and  shapes,  glasses  cut  and  painted  and  a  huge 
china  punch-bowl  decorated  with  flowers. 

On  the  table  at  which  Lord  Stair  sat  were  curios  of  beauti- 
ful workmanship:  a  salt-cellar  in  the  form  of  a  silver  whale 
with  a  mother-of-pearl  body ;  a  warrior  in  rock  crystal  with  an 
agate  helmet;  a  dish  of  Limoges  enamel,  purple  and  green; 

364 


"THERE  WAS  NO  MASSACRE  IN  GLENCOE"  365 

a  gold  embossed  vase  with  a  ruby-eyed  nymph  curling  round 
it;  a  Venice  glass,  milk-white  and  blue;  a  bronze  clock  with 
an  enamel  face;  an  Eastern  dagger  and  women's  ornaments. 

Lord  Stair  gazed  at  these  things  with  vacant  eyes;  in  and 
out  of  the  gold  and  silver  ran  the  little  black  cat,  lightly  in  a 
ghostly  silence. 

There  were  arms  and  swords  against  the  wall,  flashings 
of  steel,  bronze  and  gold  came  from  them  as  the  candles 
flickered  in  their  massive  stand;  the  room  was  strange, 
gloomy,  full,  it  seemed,  of  memories  and  ghosts  of  the 
past. 

The  Earl,  in  his  frilled  shirt,  his  long  black  embroidered 
waistcoat,  his  riding-boots,  spurs  and  glittering  rings;  sword- 
less,  with  his  lace  cravat  undone  and  hanging  to  his  knees, 
with  his  unnatural  pallor  and  his  close  hair,  looked  in  keeping 
with  his  curious  background,  as  if  he  too  had  been  called  up 
from  some  earlier  day;  to  do  penance  for  a  crime  or  brood 
over  a  tragedy  among  these  tokens  of  wealth  and  splendor. 

Now  and  then  he  glanced  toward  the  woman  on  the 
settle,  but  with  neither  pity  nor  tenderness,  coldly,  indiffer- 
ently, as  if  he  cared  nothing  whether  she  lived  or  died. 

And  up  through  the  somber  air  rose  the  thin  wreaths  of 
smoke,  thin  blue  from  his  pipe  and  the  little  cat  played  in  and 
out  of  the  silverware  and  the  drooping  lace  and  cambric 
of  Lord  Stair's  sleeve,  trailing  his  scarlet  ribbon. 

Opposite  the  table  were  the  two  windows,  close  shuttered, 
and  between  them  stood  a  black  bureau  that  bore  a  casket 
in  bright  enamel;  above  this  hung  a  mirror  and  Lord  Stair 
could  see  his  own  ghastly  face  reflected  there,  the  dim  room 
behind  it  like  a  mockery  of  himself  and  his  thoughts. 

Occasionally  Delia's  little  moan  would  break  the  heavy 


366  TICK   MASTKK.   OF  STAIR 

stillness  and  then  he  would    look  toward    her  with  pitiless 
blue  eyes. 

She  might  be  dying;  they  could  do  nothing  for  her;  there 
was  not  even  a  better  place  in  which  to  put  her;  Lumley  did 
not  live  over  his  shop,  the  rest  of  the  house  was  empty;  Lord 
Stair's  servant  had  gone  in  search  of  a  doctor;  it  was  not 
likely,  with  the  city  in  an  uproar,  that  he  would  find  one  to 
come  on  a  dangerous  errand ;  and  with  every  breath  she  drew 
her  life  was  ebbing,  or  so,  gazing  on  her  unmoved,  he  thought. 

As  the  firelight  rose  and  fell  over  the  crystal  warrior,  the 
ruby-eyed  nymph  and  the  still  face  of  the  dying  woman,  as 
the  candles  flickered  and  burnt  nearer  to  their  silver  sticks, 
as  the  shadows  advanced  and  receded  from  all  dim  corners, 
the  Earl  of  Stair  sat  motionless  with  a  hard  face,  and  the 
smoke  curled  upwards  and  away  round  the  ceiling. 

Time  did  not  exist  here,  it  had  died  with  the  stopping  of 
the  enamel  clock;  everything  was  very  old  and  dead,  yet 
immortal,  this  room  had  known  many  yesterdays;  it  held 
no  promise  of  a  to-morrow;  it  owned  the  peace  of  dust  and 
ashes,  the  silence  of  things  ended,  done  with.  Here  was  a 
place  to  meet  fate,  not  to  avert  it;  as  the  fire  dropped  to  ashes, 
as  the  woman  swooned  into  eternity,  the  placid  warrior 
and  the  red-eyed  nymph  smiled  up  at  Lord  Stair  with  the 
smiles  of  a  hundred  years  ago,  and  the  emptiness  of  the  hollow 
armor  grinned  into  the  likeness  of  a  skull. 

Shadows  advancing,  receding,  and  her  slow  breath  as 
her  soul  drifted  away. 

If  by  putting  out  his  hand  he  could  have  stopped  her 
flight,  he  would  not  have  done  it:  if  by  raising  a  finger  he 
could  have  recalled  her  fainting  life,  lio  would  not  have  done  il. 

It  was  the  inevitable;  let  her  die  as  the  fire  sank  1<>  ashes. 


"THERE  WAS  NO  MASSACRE  IN  GLENCOE"  367 

as  the  ashes  dropped  dismally  into  the  hearth;  it  was  the 
inevitable. 

Still  the  little  cat  played  lightly  to  and  fro,  leaped  over  the 
hand  dropped  by  his  side  and  pulled  at  the  lace  on  his  sleeve. 

The  mother-of-pearl  whale  glittered  with  many  colors, 
the  candle-light  circled  the  milk-white  glass  like  bright  wine, 
the  immortal  warrior  gazed  up  under  his  agate  helmet,  and 
the  siren's  eyes  gave  forth  red  sparks  of  light. 

In  a  little  while  she  would  be  as  they;  as  silent  as  cold  in 
death  as  they;  as  utterly  beyond  all  speech,  all  question  or 
demand,  inscrutable.  He  looked  at  the  clear-cut  features,  the 
sweep  of  the  lashes,  the  parted  lips,  the  locked  hands  and  the 
long  still  figure. 

She  had  said  she  loved  him. 

She  held  him  guilty  of  things  he  had  not  done;  of  her 
friend's  betrayal,  which  was  his  father's  work;  of  Jerome 
Caryl's  mysterious  death,  perhaps  if  she  had  known  —  But 
none  of  it  mattered;  the  tragedy  was  played  to  its  close  and 
death  would  draw  the  curtain  over  all  explanations. 

She  had  loved  him. 

He  knew  of  no  other  who  had ;  in  his  whole  life  no  other. 

Let  her  go  —  unquestioned. 

In  apathy  of  soul,  he  gazed  on  her  and  as  he  gazed  she 
opened  her  dark  eyes. 

Opened  wide  her  eyes  and  sat  up,  leaning  on  her  elbow. 

"Lord  Stair." 

He  could  not  tell  if  she  could  see  him,  her  glance  was  dim 
and  vague  as  if  she  addressed  some  fancied  image  of  him. 

"The  blood  of  Glencoe,"  she  said  slowly.  "They  shall  never 
speak  of  you  without  they  curse  you  —  for  Glencoe  — 

She  stared  at  the  candle-light,  leaning  forward. 


368  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Have  I  damned  myself,  my  love  —  to  fix  this  stain  on  you  ? 

-  I  feel  the  flames  —  and  I  have  lied  —  you  also,  Lord  Stair 

-  you  lied  to  me. " 

A  look  of  horror  settled  on  her  face. 

"Don't  go  —  stay  with  me  —  don't  you  see  them  —  the 
flames  ?  so  they  rose  in  Glencoe  —  you  are  paid  — 

Her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper;  the  last  log  on  the  hearth  fell 
into  ashes. 

"Kiss  me  —  why  have  you  never  kissed  me  ?  —  you  asked 
me  when  they  were  singing  —  'for  the  ways  of  the  Lord  are 
wonderful  -  'Kiss  me  — 

His  pipe  fell  from  his  inert  hand  and  broke  into  fragments 
on  the  floor. 

"Lord  Stair." 

He  did  not  move  from  his  seat. 

She  had  fallen  back  on  her  pillow;  oae  hand  trailed  along 
the  floor. 

"You   asked   me  —  Andrew  - 

He  remembered  when  he  had  asked  her;  the  Abbey,  her 
words  and  his. 

"When  you  ask  me  —  " 

And  now  —  A  great  silence  settled  on  the  room;  shadows 
advancing,  receding,  and  her  breath  stilled  forever.  The 
nymph's  ruby  eyes  flashed  brilliantly;  the  crystal  warrior 
smiled  the  same;  she  had  gone,  forever.  Beyond  question  or 
explanation,  inscrutable,  silent.  After  a  while  he  rose  and 
went  to  look  at  her;  she  had  died  as  if  she  had  fallen  asleep,  he 
lifted  her  cold  hand  from  the  floor  and  laid  it  on  her  breast. 

Then  he  went  to  the  window  and  undid  the  shutters. 

The  slipping  back  of  the  bolts  made  a  dismal  creaking; 
the  hinges  groaned ;  he  opened  the  shutters  and  gazed  through 


"THERE  WAS  NO  MASSACRE  IN  GLENCOE"  369 

the  glimmering  window-pane.  A  wine-colored  dawn  was 
breaking  over  the  housetops  like  a  stain  over  the  sky. 

From  the  corners  of  the  room  the  shadows  lifted;  on  all 
the  old  gold  and  gems  a  faint  white  light;  on  all  the  wonders  of 
precious  workmanship  and  on  that  most  wonderful  thing  of 
all,  the  woman  lying  along  the  settle  with  the  veil  of  her  hair 
falling  to  tjie  floor  and  her  head  thrown  back  on  the  bronze 
and  purple  Persian  cushion  which  bore  a  sprawling  dragon 
with  emerald  eyes. 

Her  curved  mouth  was  parted  as  if  that  last  breathing  of 
his  name  had  drawn  her  soul  with  it  and  left  her  lips  cleft; 
there  was  no  line  in  her  smooth  face,  beneath  the  soft  lashes 
were  delicate  shadows  and  across  the  sweep  of  her  throat 
lay  a  strand  of  hair  and  its  double  in  shade. 

She  was  the  hue  of  a  white  rose  against  the  vivid  tints 
of  her  cushions ;  her  face  was  as  unfathomable  as  her  silence. 

The  fire  had  dropped  into  ashes;  the  dawn  strengthening 
showed  dust  on  everything;  dust  on  the  tarnished  silver,  on 
the  sails  of  the  gold  ship,  on  the  empty  armor. 

There  were  cobwebs,  high  up  among  the  shelves  that 
showed  now;  cobwebs  clinging  to  and  obscuring  the  splendor 
of  the  gold  and  silver. 

The  black  cat  leaped  from  the  table,  ran  round  the  room, 
then  began  playing  amid  the  ashes  and  the  ends  of  Delia's 
hair. 

Lord  Stair  crossed  to  the  head  of  the  settle  and  stood  looking 
at  the  dawn  behind  the  diamond  panes. 

The  curse  of  the  Dalrymples  was  fulfilled  now;  surely,  to 
the  last  bitterness,  completed. 

He  glanced  down  at  Delia  —  what  had  she  said  ?  —  "for 
the  ways  of  the  Lord  are  wonderful"  —  Wonderful !  he 


370  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

laughed  to  himself  —  she  had  loved  him,  had  ruined  him, 
and  had  died  because  she  could  not  face  what  she  had  done. 
Was  she  a  fool  or  a  heroine  ?  —  he  could  look  at  her  coldly 
now  and  wonder,  though  she  had  moved  him  once. 

The  sun  rose  slowly,  majestic  into  the  clear  sky;  red-gold 
rays  struck  into  the  room  and  caused  the  candle-light  to  look 
faint  and  sickly;  the  armor,  swords  and  pistols,  shone  as  if 
on  fire;  Lord  Stair  put  his  hand  before  his  eyes  and  leaned 
heavily  against  the  carved  post  of  the  settle. 

The  deathly  stillness  was  broken  by  the  soft  opening  of 
the  door,  the  soft  closing  of  it,  and  a  gentle  step  into  the  room. 

Lord  Stair  looked  round. 

Standing  against  the  armor,  in  the  strange  faint  lights  and 
shades  was  a  woman  in  a  light  dress  with  the  red  glow  of  the 
dawn  in  her  blonde  hair  and  over  her  pale  face;  Lady  Stair, 
looking  at  him  intently,  eagerly,  with  questioning  blue  eyes. 

"Ulrica!"  he  could  utter  no  word  but  her  name;  the  blood 
rushed  into  his  face  as  he  stared  at  her,  incredulous,  amazed. 

"I  was  too  late,"  she  said  faintly;  she  sat  down  at  his  seat 
at  the  table;  there  were  lines  of  weariness  under  her  eyes, 
and  her  dress  was  tumbled.  "My  woman  told  you  ?"  her  hands 
holding  a  riding-whip,  fell  between  the  crystal  warrior  and 
the  nymph  on  her  gold  vase.  Lord  Stair  came  in  front  of  Delia, 
hiding  her  from  sight. 

"I  have  heard  nothing,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "When  I  returned 
the  house  was  empty  save  for  one  man  — 

"Oh!"  she  glanced  up,  bewildered  by  his  manner.  "I  heard 
that  they  were  going  to  burn  the  house  —  I  did  not  trust  the 
servants  —  I  went  myself  to  ask  the  Marquis  for  a  guard  - 
he  sent  me  on  to  the  castle  —  and  there  they  put  such  difficul- 
ties in  the  way  —  and  —  I  was  too  late. " 


"THERE  WAS  NO  MASSACRE  IN  GLENCOE"  371 

She  leaned  back  wearily. 

"They  sent  some  men  —  they  are  putting  the  fire  out  now 
—  the  city  was  in  such  an  uproar  that  I  could  not  return 
sooner  —  I  thought  that  you  might  be  here  so  I  came.  You 
never  got  my  message  ?" 

"No." 

She  leaned  forward. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  lord  ?  I  did  all  I  could." 

"Yes  — ah,  yes." 

He  was  looking  at  her  very  strangely.  "Did  you  not  guess 
where  I  had  gone  ?" 

She  pressed  her  handkerchief  to  her  lips  and  her  lids 
fluttered  in  a  weary  manner. 

Lord  Stair  came  to  the  other  side  of  the  table. 

"So,  Ulrica,  you  stay  to  share  my  fallen  fortunes?"  he 
asked  in  a  low  voice. 

She  looked  at  him  calmly. 

"Did  you  think  anything  else  qf  me  ?" 

"My  thoughts!"  he  said  wildly.  "Let  my  thoughts  go  —  I 
know  not  what  I  thought  —  " 

Their  eyes  met  across  the  table  of  gold  and  silver  — 

"Ulrica  —  what  made  you  stay  ?" 

Her  eyes  widened. 

"It  never  crossed  my  mind  to  go.  Whatever  they  say  —  my 
place  is  not  among  your  enemies." 

A  little  pause,  then  he  said  in  a  labored  way:  "Ulrica  —  I 
am  innocent  of  what  they  impute  to  me  —  there  was  no 
massacre  in  Glencoe." 

"I  thought  so, "  she  answered  quietly.  "My  lord,  I  thought  so. " 

Her  hood  had  slipped  back  from  her  smooth  hair  and  her 
sweet  face  was  pure  and  pale  in  the  rich  light. 


372  THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 

"Have  you  saved  anything  ?"  she  asked. 

Lord  Stair  pointed  to  the  kitten  at  his  feet  with  a  half- 
smile. 

"That,"  he  said,  "and  this  —  " 

He  drew  Cooper's  drawing  from  his  pocket  and  laid  it 
by  the  crystal  warrior. 

Lady  Stair's  eyes  fell  to  it,  then  lifted  to  his  face;  a  color 
came  into  her  cheeks  and  she  rose  trembling. 

As  she  turned  she  caught  sight  of  Delia  and  cried  out  in  a 
frightened  way  with  blanched  cheeks. 

"Hush!"  said  Lord  Stair;  he  was  beside  her  looking  at  the 
dead  woman.  "She  has  fixed  on  me  the  blood  of  Glencoe  — 
and  she  has  paid  —  hush !" 

Lady  Stair  shrank  away,  still  with  terror  in  her  eyes.  "Who 
was  she  ?"  came  her  whisper. 
,  "Do  you  want  to  know  ?    Does  it  matter  now  ?" 

"No!  no!" 

She  shuddered  against  the  table,  gazing  at  Delia's  terrible 
calm  against  the  background  of  the  strange  room. 

Lord  Stair  looked  at  the  burning  sunrise  and  held  out  his 
right  hand;  the  glowing  light  fell  on  it,  a  crimson  stain. 

"You  see  —  the  blood  of  Glencoe !" 

He  laughed  magnificently  and  turned  to  his  wife;  his  face 
was  wild  in  expression,  his  eyes  wide  open.  "And  you,  of  all 
of  them,  have  been  faithful !" 

She  took  her  gaze  from  the  dead  woman,  put  out  her  hand 
and  clasped  his,  so  that  the  red  was  over  her  wrist,  too. 

"You  of  all!"  he  repeated,  and  his  voice  was  unsteady. 
He  drew  her  up  to  the  table  edge,  close  to  him,  her  grasp  of 
his  hand  tightened;  her  breath  came  fast. 

"John!  John!" 


"THERE  WAS  NO  MASSACRE  IN  GLENCOE"  373 

He  looked  at  her  in  a  curious  manner.  "You  of  all!"  he 
repeated,  and  his  eyes  wandered  to  Delia;  he  turned  from  the 
living  to  the  dead  whose  lie  was  his  judgment  and  his  punish- 
ment and  he  smiled  bitterly. 

"John !"  said  Lady  Stair  again,  faintly,  softly. 

With  a  little  start  he  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"Ah  — do  you  understand?"  [she  said.  "At  last?"  In  the 
wild  light  of  the  red  morn  her  blonde  hair  glimmered  against 
his  shoulder. 

"At  last  —  Ulrica —  "  his  voice  broke,  but  his  eyes  shone 
as  his  fingers  closed  over  hers.  "My  dear!  my  dear!"  And  the 
day  dawned  upon  their  kiss. 


EPILOGUE 
THE  GLEN  O'  WEEPING 

THE  sun  that  so  rarely  pierces  the  mists  that 
shroud  the  Valley  of  Glencoe,  was  to-day  shin- 
ing mournfully  on  the  solitude  of  the  Glen  of 
Weeping. 

It  was  mid-July  and  above  the  snow-topped  moun- 
tains the  sky  shone  coldly  blue. 

A  keen  wind  whistled  through  the  winding  ravines  and 
patches  of  purple,  dull  gold  and  scarlet,  showed  where  the 
heather,  the  gorse  and  the  rowan  bloomed. 

The  grass  was  studded  with  harebells  and  the  pines  grew 
fresh  and  green. 

Yet  the  scene  was  desolation,  utter  desolation;  in  all  the 
vast  expanse  there  was  no  human  being  in  sight,  no  animal  nor 
bird.  Only,  bare  to  the  wide  sky,  lay  the  scattered,  ruined  huts 
of  the  Macdonalds;  the  little  creeping  wild  flowers  had  over- 
grown the  ashes  of  the  charred  door-posts  which  lay  half- 
hidden  in  the  grass;  the  storms  and  winds  of  three  winters 
had  nearly  demolished  what  the  vengeance  of  the  Campbells 
had  left,  but  still  above  the  rough  graves  made  by  the  sur- 
viving Macdonalds  for  their  kindred  rose  some  few  traces 
of  the  village  of  Makian. 

And  now  it  is  past  midday  and  the  sad  sun  has  disap- 
peared behind  the  distant  snows;  a  cold  mournful  light  fills 
the  valley,  and  the  hollow  about  the  sullen  water  is  full  of 

374 


THE  GLEN  O'  WEEPING  375 

shadows,  to  right  and  left  silence  save  for  the  crying  of  the 
wind  and  sound  of  the  swaying  fir-trees. 

Then  the  noise  of  bridle  bells  and  horses  coming  rapidly 
across  the  heather  and  a  cavalcade  of  some  hundred  men 
gallop  down  the  mouth  of  the  Glen;  Campbells  with  red- 
blond  hair. 

»  Their  leader  is  Breadalbane,  he  rides  a  white  horse  with 
steel  and  scarlet  trappings,  and  his  green  and  blue  tartan 
blows  out  behind  him  across  his  shin  ing  cuirass;  he  rides  easily, 
swiftly,  with  one  hand  on  his  hip  above  his  sword  and  the 
other  lightly  on  his  reins ;  in  his  bonnet  is  a  sprig  of  myrtle  and 
his  hair  flutters  pale  as  silver  back  from  his  face. 

By  his  side  is  the  Countess  Peggy,  her  plaid  floats  from  her 
shoulder  and  over  her  black  horse;  she  leans  forward  a  little 
in  the  saddle  and  her  red  curls  frame  a  pale  triumphant 
face. 

After  these  come  the  Campbells,  red  gentlemen  in  dark 
tartans  with  faces  singularly  contained  and  hard  light 
eyes. 

Silently  they  ride  through  Glencoe,  the  Glen  o'  Weeping, 
their  horses'  hoofs  stir  the  dead  ashes  from  under  the  heather, 
they  pass  through  the  dismantled  ruins,  they  gallop  over  the 
graves  of  their  enemies  but  they  raise  no  shout  of  victory, 
make  no  gesture  of  triumph. 

It  is  the  Campbell  way. 

Only  as  they  pass  through  desolation,  the  Countess  Peggy 
looks  at  her  husband  and  he  at  her;  their  eyes  meet  and  flash 
and  her  thin  lips  curve  into  a  smile. 

There  —  somewhere  under  their  horses'  hoofs  lies  Ronald 
Macdonald  and  the  Campbells  are  free  of  Glencoe  and  all 
the  Highlands. 


376 


THE  MASTER  OF  STAIR 


Out  of  the  Glen  o'  Weeping  they  come,  the  Campbells 
hard-faced,  riding  swiftly,  and  Breadalbane's  wife  looks 
at  him  with  a  deepening  of  her  smile. 


THE  END 


A     000127132     9 


